


Getting There

by caloriebomb



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Belly Kink, Body Image, Excessive eating, Feeding Kink, Food Issues, Food Sex, M/M, Slow Burn, Stuffing, Weight Gain, and I do mean excessive, chubby!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7231840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Tony groaned, clapping a hand over his eyes as Steve lifted an enormous slice of chocolate cake and began digging in. “I bet you my fortune that's not his first piece.”</p><p>“It's not,” Bucky said, “it's his second,” then wished he could swallow his words. He hadn't meant to reveal he'd been monitoring Steve quite so closely.</p><p>Tony didn't seem to notice, though. “I mean, don't get me wrong, he looks good, very nineties chunk hunk, but someone's gotta tell him he's getting chubby, and I vote you.”</p><p>“No,” Bucky said, annoyed. “Who cares?”</p><p>Tony opened his mouth indignantly, then closed it. Then, finally, shrugged. “Good point,” he said. "</p><p>(In which Steve doesn't realize he's getting fat, but everybody else does.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SevereStorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/gifts), [wreckingthefinite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/gifts).



> This hot oozing piece of trash is for a prompt by the reigning ambassadors of dumpster-fic, SevereStorms and Wreckingthefinite. If you've come for awesome plot and great character development, you should check out their fics, not mine; this here is 90% heavy eating, 5% heavy petting, and 5% team banter, sans the Hulk, because in this world Steve gets to be the biggest! 
> 
> Have fun, be safe.

The tunnels beneath Hydra's latest technological outpost were dark and narrow and reverberated like an echo chamber. The scuff of Sam's foot sounded loud as a whooping cough; Steve's breath was roaring in Bucky's ear; the accidental brush of Bucky's metal arm against the cement walls sounded like a gong. Natasha, no surprise, was the quietest, so she was some thirty paces ahead, peering around the corners where the passageways branched off, looking for signs of where Tony might be kept. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, she came hurrying back on silent feet. “Fifteen guards,” she mouthed to them. “Stay absolutely quiet. We need to count on the element of surprise.”

They crept after her near-noiselessly, pausing when they reached the corner of the tunnel. A quick glance told Bucky that the guards were very still as well, alert like dogs, ready to pounce at any sound. He met Steve's eyes and they nodded to one another grimly. Behind him, Sam's fingers were poised on his gun. It was so quiet Bucky could hear his own heartbeat, thump-thump-thump in his ears. 

Natasha nodded to them, raised a finger to her lips and – 

Steve's stomach let out a rumble that sounded like thunder. A tortured, deep-down gurgle that was as loud and obvious as a shout. 

“Well,” Steve said sheepishly, and the guards were on them.

:::

Two weeks later, Clint and Steve got trapped in a dungeon for nearly four days before the team could pull them out, and Steve got so hungry he nearly ate Clint's arm.

“Seriously,” Clint said, “I woke up one night and he was holding my hand and drooling over my fingers like they were hot dogs.”

“I was not,” Steve laughed, though the laughter dissolved quickly into a little wheeze of pain. Bucky, in a chair at his side, tensed all over. They were in the hospital – or, Steve was in the hospital, and the team had come to visit him. He'd suffered a crushed ribcage and a pretty serious concussion during the extraction, and the days without food had taken more of a toll on him than they had on Clint. He was still hooked up to machines pumping nutrients into his depleted body. Bucky hadn't seen Steve look so pale since 1941, and he hated it. Made him remember all those nights he'd spent at Steve's bedside, swapping out cold washcloths across a fiery forehead, listening to Steve moan, powerless to stop the pain that racked his friend's skinny body. It reminded him of other moments of powerlessness. Put him on edge.

“I don't get it,” Sam said, leaning against the sterile hospital wall. “Guy was in the ice for seventy years, no problem – but a few days without food nearly ends him?”

“A ton of concrete to the sternum nearly ended me,” Steve corrected him.

“The doctor said your body had entered starvation mode,” Sam said. 

“The serum affects his metabolic process,” Tony said. “So his metabolism --”

“I'm right here.”

“Sorry, your metabolism,” Tony amended, patting Steve's head, “runs a little faster than a normal person's. Helps you heal, build muscle, run fast, beat us all at double-dutch. But it also means you need more than the normal amount of food. In the ice, your metabolism stopped completely; you were in stasis, so no harm done. But awake, what was four days without food for Clint probably felt like more than a week for you. ”

“That explains the stomach growl heard round the world,” Nat said. 

“And the near-cannibalism,” Clint said. Then, to Steve, “Nah, I knew you weren't gonna eat me. But you did say 'lo mein' in your sleep.”

“Seems like a liability,” Bucky said. “The serum that made the Winter – that made me what I am, it does the opposite. I can go for days with nothing.” So they could keep him out on missions without feeding him, he didn't say, but Steve's face crumpled a little like he was connecting the dots, and Bucky looked away. 

“It is a liability,” Tony said. 

“Hey,” Steve said.

“You're not a liability, pal, your stomach is,” Tony said. “Lucky for you, I tweaked your suit a little, and now, not only do you have some extra Power Bar pockets hidden in the lining, but there's a week's supply of slow-release nutrient capsules in your helmet. I'll show you how to access them. You ever get captured, chomp down on those suckers and you'll be good to go for a week. They're in development for countries stricken with famine, so you can be my little guinea pig.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Steve said. “I think.”

“Are you hungry now?” Natasha said. “I could chase down that cute nurse with the pudding.”

Bucky wasn't sure why he bristled at that, but he did, and Nat sent him an amused glance. 

“Doesn't need pudding,” he muttered. “Needs dinner. Real food.”

“The food here tastes like toothpaste,” Steve said morosely. 

“I could run out and get you some lo mein,” Clint suggested. 

“Or we could order pizza,” Sam said. “Do hospitals accept delivery?”

“They do on this floor,” Tony said. “I own this floor.”

“I could go for pizza,” Steve said. “Or lo mein.”

“Pizza and lo mein,” Sam decided, and Bucky felt his lips curl up in a small, grateful smile. It felt good to know that he wasn't the only one worried about Steve, wasn't the only one there to take care of him anymore.

“You hungry, Buck?” Steve said softly, and when Bucky looked over, he saw that Steve was smiling, too.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, though he wasn't, not exactly; he felt a certain longing for something, yes, a gnawing in the pit of his stomach, but not for food, necessarily. 

For what, he couldn't say. 

:::

Bucky and Steve shared a suite of rooms in the Avenger's tower, complete with their own terrace and private elevator down to the ground floor, and sometimes it felt like any other twenty-something New York apartment, if three times the size. Even though they all lived in the same building, it was possible to go days without seeing hide nor hair of the rest of the team, and they had to coordinate hangouts through text, like people on TV. When they weren't saving the world, Steve and Bucky devoted themselves to catching up on everything they'd missed, with varying degrees of success. Each had their strength. Steve, for example, was very good at watching television – “bingewatching,” Nat called it, and he'd mainlined Friends and Buffy the Vampire Slayer in under a week each, but Bucky couldn't sit still for more than half an hour without getting antsy. He was better at technology than Steve, though. By the time Steve had painstakingly learned to type “whats up” on the tiny keyboard of his phone, Bucky had mastered the iPhone and the iPad and had helped Clint install a speech-to-text program on his phone for when he was too lazy (or concussed) to lip-read. 

Now, though, Bucky was pacing around the spacious kitchen. He paced into their living room to pace the length of their floor-to-ceiling bulletproof window, paced into his bedroom and around his king-sized bed, paced through the hallway past Steve's empty bedroom, paced back into the kitchen and did a lap around the table. Steve had been down in the lab for over two hours, and it had grown dark outside as Bucky waited. 

It was just a check-up, Bucky knew, and he trusted Tony's doctors, or he wanted to trust Tony's doctors, but he couldn't stop his brain from flashing to all the times he himself had been “checked-up”: needles in his eyeballs, chunks of skin gouged from his side, so much blood drawn that he'd blacked out, his body strapped down onto an operating table with his hands torqued over his head, liquid fire from some venemous shot coursing up his veins as he screamed and begged for mercy... 

The sooner Steve came back, whole, unharmed, the better. 

He was standing by the door when he heard footsteps coming down the hall, and he half-ran into the living room to arrange himself in what he hoped was a very relaxed, not-at-all-tense pose on the couch, booted feet up on the coffee table, hands behind his head. Look at this guy! He thought. Does this guy look stressed? No sir.

“Bucky?” Steve called. Bucky heard the jingle of his keys as they hit the countertop.

“Here,” Bucky said, casually. “I'm in here.”

“Hey,” Steve said, smiling as he appeared in the doorway with a big bag of barbecue potato chips, and then frowning. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” Bucky said, swatting away the question. “What about you, how do you feel?”

“Hungry,” Steve said, coming to sit next to Bucky on the couch and popping open the chips. “Clean bill of health, though. Perfectly fine.” He crunched down on a big handful of chips and offered the bag to Bucky, who shook his head. Steve shrugged, took another handful. “You sure you're all right? You look a little...”

“I was napping,” Bucky lied. “Just woke up.”

“Oh,” Steve said, helping himself to more chips, licking the red seasoning off his fingers, pink tongue wrapped around his thumb. Bucky shifted uncomfortably, looked away. Steve paused, looking suddenly guilty. “Did I startle you, when I came in?” 

“No, Jesus, lay off,” Bucky said, then felt immediately bad. But he hated being treated like he was always five minutes from a breakdown – even though, truthfully, he did feel that way sometimes, felt he was just about to lose it from anxiety and panic and god knew what else... but he hadn't, yet. Not publicly, anyway. He'd had more than a few sleepless nights, when he'd gone up to the roof and just let himself shake for a while under the stars, nothing he couldn't handle. But he got a little testy, sometimes, when he felt he was being coddled.

And Steve, bless him, didn't take it to heart. “Told Nat she could come over for dinner,” Steve said, as if Bucky hadn't just snapped at him. “That okay with you?”

“Sounds good,” Bucky said, and stole a chip, chewing it slowly. He still didn't need to eat much, didn't really get hungry the way other people seemed to, but he liked tasting things. 

Steve, on the other hand, ate with gusto, and he ate a lot. Even before Tony explained his quickened metabolism, Bucky had noticed. Where Clint ate three pieces of pizza, Steve ate five. If Nat ate a donut, Steve had three. He had always been the last one eating at dinner, always the last one reaching over to finish off the curry or the eggplant parm, and since his near-starvation in the dungeon, he'd been eating even more. Absentmindedly, like the experience had subconsciously spooked him. He'd started carrying protein bars around with him, per Tony's suggestion, and he was snacking more, Bucky noticed – bags of chips he devoured in one sitting, packages of Oreos, cheese and crackers, pretzels and peanut butter... 

It wasn't just Steve who'd taken Tony's words to heart, though. His friends had, too. 

“Hey boys,” Natasha said, after she'd let herself in. “I brought stuff to make nachos. Microwave nachos. I mean I brought chips and cheese. Do you have salsa?”

“I thought we were ordering Indian?” Steve said, brow crinkling adorably.

“What, they didn't have appetizers in the forties?” Nat said, kicking off her red sneakers. “C'mon, Mr. Metabolism, you don't think I'd let you starve before the food came, did you?”

“Oh, ha ha,” Steve said, but he ambled into the kitchen after her, leaving Bucky no choice but to follow. 

Natasha's idea of nachos was a bag of tortilla chips, a bag of shredded orange cheese, and a jar of salsa. Steve's idea of nachos included sour cream, avocado, olives, and the leftover pulled pork from the barbecue place down the street, all in a casserole dish that he insisted on baking in the oven rather than the microwave. They took the whole steaming mess into the living room with a few plates, and Nat wandered over to the record player to pick out some music while Steve piled his plate high with nachos and added a few extra dollops of sour cream. He ate with one hand and thumbed clumsily at his phone with the other, ducking his head a little to catch a string of melty cheese that stretched from his plate to his mouth. 

“Buck, I can't figure this out,” Steve said. “It says here they don't deliver?”

Bucky held out his hand, and Steve passed him the phone. “Oh,” Bucky said, tapping away busily. “This is the restaurant's website. We have to go through the delivery company. You know what you want?”

“Chicken tikka masala,” Steve said, peering over Bucky's shoulder as he checked the boxes. “Lamb saag. Three orders of naan. Um, maybe some biryani, too. Nat?”

“Dal,” she said, engrossed in their record collection. 

“Buck?”

“Those little pockets,” Bucky said. “With the potatoes?”

“Samosa,” Steve said. “That's all you want? Here, get two orders of those and throw in an extra Chicken Tikka. You like that.”

“They have rice pudding,” Bucky said.

“Ooh,” said Steve through a mouth full of nachos. “Yeah, three orders of that.”

Natasha finally settled on Marvin Gaye, whom Bucky had taken a great shine to, and came over to pick at the nachos. She didn't take a plate and she didn't eat much, Bucky noticed; a chip here, a chip there, and he himself wasn't having much either, nibbling straight from the pan, as Natasha did. 

Steve, on the other hand, kept piling the nachos onto his small plate and demolishing them, piling, demolishing. His lips were shiny with grease, and he kept licking his fingers, tongue darting out and in, cheeks hollowing as he swallowed. He scraped the bottom of the sour cream container clean and made a low, rumbling, dissatisfied noise that made Bucky's face tingle, for some reason. 

“Take these away from me,” Steve said, pushing the half-empty casserole dish away from himself, and Bucky remembered with a strange, hot pang, that Steve had already had an entire bag of potato chips earlier. “I'm not gonna have room for dinner.”

But despite his words, he seemed to have plenty of room for dinner. By the time it came, the nachos were two-thirds gone and Steve was four beers deep, slow and smiling though he claimed the alcohol had no effect on him, and he just liked the taste. 

Bucky had had a few himself, enough that he was loose enough to actually join in the conversation, rather than simply responding when questions were directed right at him. They were talking about sparring, about their different strengths and weaknesses, how Nat was fast and effective based partially on her deep training in the human body, how to hurt it, how to weaken it, intuitively going for the soft spots, while Steve's brutal, brawny efficiency covered up the strategic mind behind each punch. 

“I don't think about where I'm hitting, not really,” Bucky said, picking apart a samosa. “My body takes over.”

“God, I'm thinking the whole time,” Steve said, leaned back on the couch with his third enormous plateful of food (but who was counting? Not Bucky). “My mind's always racing a mile a minute.”

“I feel very calm,” Bucky said, “peaceful,” and then, disgusted at what he'd just admitted, dropped his samosa. 

“So do I,” Nat said, tangling her fingers in his long hair. She and Steve were on the sofa, Bucky cross-legged on the floor. He liked being low-down when he was eating; a predilection he had no desire to examine the cause of. It probably wasn't anything fun. “It's our training,” Nat said. “When we were fighting, it was the only time we felt truly safe.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, looking up at her gratefully, though his gaze got snagged on Steve, who was leaning forward for another beer, one hand on his stomach as if it hurt him. His peachy face was flushed from so much spicy food, and as Bucky watched he raised his fist to his mouth and let out a little hiccuped belch. 

“Oof, sorry,” Steve said. “Full.”

“Bet I could kick your ass right now without breaking a sweat,” Natasha said to Steve. “It'd be like fighting a samosa.”

“Speaking of,” Steve said, and plucked the last one from the carton. “Buck, you mind?”

“Go ahead,” Bucky said. “It's all yours.”

:::

In a team meeting that week, Bucky watched Steve absentmindedly eat four jelly donuts in a row, dunked in coffee with so much cream it looked nearly white. 

“Think fast,” Tony said at the end of the meeting, and Steve's surprised hand shot up to catch what looked to Bucky like a Power Bar. “New recipe,” Tony explained. “Extra calories, extra vitamins, keep you going longer. Anyone else want to try one?”

“Steve?” Sam said, watching Steve chew thoughtfully. “What's the consensus?”

“They're good,” Steve said, sounding pleased. “They taste like... kinda like a cupcake, actually.”

“Here,” Tony said, and slid an entire case of them down the conference table. Clint grabbed one, but Sam, Natasha and Bucky refrained, though Bucky accepted a small piece of Steve's second one, just to try it. Not bad. “You can have all those, Steve,” Tony said. “Let me know if you need more. I might've gone a little overboard on this test batch.”

“You?” said Sam. “Overboard?”

“Hey, so sue me if I don't like the thought of Captain Cheekbones here going full-on Calvin Klein model,” Tony said, and Bucky nearly grinned at the man. He still wasn't over how good it felt for everyone to be on the same page, the keep-Steve-safe page... though was it just Bucky, or were Steve's impressive cheekbones a little... less impressive, lately? There was a sleekness to Steve's chiseled face that struck Bucky as new – and improved, if you asked him, not that there had ever been anything wrong with Steve's dumb perfection of a face, but Bucky thought he looked even better just this little bit softer. Safer. 

“Okay,” Tony said, clapping his hands once. “Next order of business. Thai or Vietnamese tonight?”

:::

“Steve,” Sam said, as they suited up in Tony's jet, “you get a chance to eat before we got called out?”

“We had lunch,” Steve said, glancing at Bucky. “Ramen.”

“Well, there's a box of Cheez Its with your name on 'em,” Sam said. “I stashed them with the ammo, just in case.”

Bucky gave Sam an approving nod, and Steve finished the whole box in ten minutes.

:::

“Cap,” Clint said, tossing Steve one of Tony's Cupcake Bars, as the team had started calling them. “Eat up. This surveillance might take a while.”

:::

“Oof,” Steve said, stretching gingerly on the couch. “Boy, am I full.”

He and Bucky had watched a movie and ordered pizza: the former, The Wedding Singer, and the latter, two large meat-lover's – one of which Steve had put away all by himself, to Bucky's shock and delight. He'd had an order of mozzarella sticks and a six-pack of beer, too, and his cheeks were lightly tinged red, his lips pink and slick.

“Feel like I'm gonna burst,” Steve said, digging his strong fingers into his belly; and, to Bucky's interest, he did look a little swollen, his flat stomach not quite so flat, the stuffed mound of it rounding out visibly under his old t-shirt. “You get enough to eat, Buck?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, though in truth he could have feasted on this sight, alone: Steve, sated and comfortable and well-fed. Maybe even overfed. A little lazy and slow from all the food he'd packed away. This was Steve feeling safe, feeling cared-for and healthy and comfortable, and it was a sight Bucky could see every day and never get sick of. 

They put on another movie, something with aliens and a cute black guy in a suit, and halfway through, Steve paused it to go to the bathroom. He came back with a carton of brownie batter ice cream and two spoons, one of which he offered to Bucky. Bucky wasn't hungry in the slightest, not after the three slices of pizza he'd had, but he took a spoonful just for the pleasure of reaching over into Steve's lap, where the ice cream was nestled. This kind of closeness reminded him of growing up in cramped spaces, Steve always pressed up into his side because there was nowhere else for him to go. Steve was watching the movie with his serious, blue-eyed attention, sucking on spoonfuls of ice cream, dipping back down for more without pausing. Bucky had another bite and then put his spoon down, watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. 

It did something to Bucky, the difference in how much they ate. Before the war, he'd had to coax Steve to eat, and he'd been embarrassed at times by his own hearty appetite, had felt guilty scarfing down two whole pieces of buttered toast while Steve could hardly manage one before pushing it towards Bucky with a weak, apologetic smile. But now it was Bucky who pushed his leftovers towards Steve; Steve, who devoured them without a hint of guilt, because why should he be guilty? They had more than enough, and they'd worked for it. 

“Mmm,” Steve hummed to himself, spooning another bite of ice cream into his mouth even as he leaned back further into the couch cushions to run a thumb uncomfortably around the waistband of his jeans. The happy little sound flooded Bucky's body with a shocking warmth; so shocking he squirmed in his seat a little, surprised at his own reaction. “Oops,” Steve said a moment later, frowning into the near-empty carton of ice cream. “Sorry, Buck, didn't even realize I was hogging. Here, before it's gone.”

“I'm good,” Bucky said. Then, hesitantly, “You eat.”

And Steve did. 

That night, hours after they'd said goodnight and retreated into their separate bedrooms, Bucky woke up panting from a nightmare. As he lay in bed, waiting for his heart-rate to calm and his body to stop shaking, he became aware of a strange sound in the kitchen. A rustle; a clank. 

Filled with purpose, Bucky crept down the hallway, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his metal fist, following the flood of light from the kitchen. But it was just Steve, standing in front of the open fridge and munching on a piece of cold pizza. He was in boxers and a little white t-shirt – very little in fact. Bucky was familiar with this shirt; he remembered marveling at the breadth of Steve's shoulders in it, the bulge of his biceps, how you could see the contour of his hard abs through the thin cotton. And the shoulders were still broad, the biceps still enormous, but the abs? Were nowhere in sight. Steve's stomach was bowed-out a little, just a slight, smooth convexity to his middle, and Bucky could see the shirt beginning to strain every-so-slightly. It had gone from fitted to tight. 

Bucky made a low, uncontrollable noise, the merest hint of a growl in the back of his throat, and Steve turned quickly. 

Anyone else would have been frightened, Bucky thought, to see an ex-brainwashed ex-assassin looming in the doorway with a whirring metal arm and long, wild, sleep-messy hair, ever-present dark circles etched under his eyes, pale face still damp from the sweat of his nightmare – but Steve just smiled, the same wide, relieved smile he got whenever he saw Bucky. It was this smile, unfailing, that convinced Bucky every day that he was human. It was a smile that was impossible not to return. 

“Stomach woke me up,” Steve said. “Was rumbling fit to beat the band. The curse of my metabolism, I guess.”

Privately, Bucky thought his stomach was probably rumbling in a valiant effort at digestion, not hunger, but he said nothing, just padded over to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. 

“Nightmare?” Steve said mildly. After a moment, Bucky nodded. He never felt much like talking after a bad one, but Steve didn't press it, just pushed the last bite of pizza into his mouth and took out another one, then came to sit across from Bucky while he ate it. Bucky calmed himself by watching the contented swell of Steve's cheeks as he chewed, elbows on the table, showcasing the breadth of his firm chest. Below his pecs, Bucky could swear there was a curve that hadn't been there just a month ago, a slight hint of the roundness Bucky had seen. 

Probably it was just bloat, from the heavy dinner and the interrupted digestion, Bucky thought. Probably. But maybe not. Steve's face had been looking a little softer, he'd noticed, and when Steve stood to get a glass of chocolate milk, Bucky's keen eye informed him that there was a new thickness to his hips, too. Barely there, but Bucky could see it. 

Steve rested a hand on his stomach absentmindedly as he gulped down the chocolate milk, and when he was finished he said, “Aah!” like a little kid.

“Think you'll be able to get back to sleep okay?” he asked Bucky anxiously, and Bucky nodded honestly. 

Watching Steve eat calmed him, he realized. Like almost nothing else did, aside from fighting. Watching his best friend put away two pieces of midnight pizza and some measly milk had lulled his nightmare away completely. He felt as lazy as Steve looked, scratching his belly thoughtlessly. 

“I'll walk you to your room,” Steve said, courtly as a gentleman, and Bucky flushed for some reason, but he stood and let Steve lead him to his door. “Goodnight, Buck,” Steve said, and clapped a warm palm on his flesh shoulder before disappearing back down the hall. 

:::

“So, Steve's metabolism,” Bucky said to Tony the next week. “How fast is it, exactly? Three times as fast? Four?”

They were in the lab, Tony fixing a plate in Bucky's hand, Bucky doped to the gills with government-grade tranquilizers, or the Tony Stark equivalent, to keep him calm. Even taking the drugs in the first place was an act of faith. It surprised him, how much he trusted Tony after everything they'd been through, but all his animal instincts told him that Tony, while hard-won, was yours for life once you got him around to your side. He trusted the man with his life – and, more importantly, with Steve's life. 

“Nah, not that speedy,” Tony said, concentrating on some fiddly little piece of Bucky's pinky finger. “Probably about twice as fast, when he's active – fighting, training, all that stuff. Hanging out watching TV? Maybe one and a half times as fast. So tell him to lay off the cheesecake.”

Steve had recently incurred Tony's wrath by accidentally eating a cheesecake – an entire cheesecake, Bucky reminded himself several times a day – that had been intended for a board meeting. (“It was on the counter all morning!” Steve had protested. “Seemed a shame to let it just sit there.”)

Bucky absolutely would not tell Steve to lay off.

“All done, champ,” Tony said. “How's it feel?”

Bucky folded his fingers into a fist, then slowly uncurled his middle digit in Tony's direction. 

“Good, good, back to full sass capacity,” Tony said, giving him a little shove to get him off the exam table. “And tell your cake-eating boyfriend there are leftover brownies in the common room.”

Now that was a message Bucky would pass along. In fact, so happy was he to tell Steve about the brownies that he almost didn't notice the word Tony had used – boyfriend. But when he did, his body was suffused with a deep, pleasurable warmth that spread all the way down to his toes. He knew it was a joke, a jibe, and he knew Steve was not his boyfriend. Nor did he want him to be! (Did he?) It had to be the drugs. 

The tranquilizer left him dopey and slow all day, and he spent the evening draped across the couch, prone like he almost never allowed himself to be, booted feet up on the cushions. Steve moved carefully around him, bringing him glasses of water and making them a simple meal of macaroni and potatoes with butter, comfort food that reminded them both of home. Bucky ate slowly, but Steve inhaled his dinner with his usual appreciative gusto. He had three bowlfuls of pasta and three baked potatoes dripping with butter, and an hour after dinner he fixed himself a couple roast beef and cheddar sandwiches and came into the living room to eat them, pausing so Bucky could raise his feet up and then lower them down across Steve's lap. 

Steve rested his plate on Bucky's shins, and beneath his calves Bucky could feel the hard muscle of Steve's thighs; and a bit of softness, too, a hint of give. He was sharply aware of the slight press of Steve's midsection against his leg, and he believed he could feel the exact place where Steve's jeans were cutting into him, the tiny overlap of pudge that crested his waistband. Steve was wearing a t-shirt that had always been loose but was now, undeniably, not as loose; it stretched a little over the broadness of his shoulders, and Bucky could see the timid new slope of Steve's stomach beneath the material. 

He hadn't been certain before; he'd thought maybe he was imagining things. But no, the evidence was clear. 

Steve had put on some weight. 

“You know what I could go for?” Steve said, munching his second sandwich. There was a tiny fleck of mayonnaise on his lower lip, and Bucky had a sudden hankering for mayonnaise. 

Bucky cleared his throat. “What?”

“Cherry pie. The really awful, syrupy kind that used to cost three cents at the corner bakery. You remember?”

Bucky did not remember. For some reason, when he thought of cherry pie, he thought of Steve. Steve with red lips and round, red cheeks, like cherries. Whipped cream. Sweet and soft. 

“You okay?” Steve said. “You look a little...”

Bucky didn't know how he looked, but he quickly schooled his face. “Cherry pie,” he repeated, swallowing. “Yeah. Bet we could get some from the internet. Tonight.”

“You think?” Steve said eagerly. 

“Pass me my phone,” Bucky said, and not half an hour later there was a knock on their door.

Steve cut each of them a thick wedge and ceremoniously squirted a trembling mound of whipped cream over each piece, and Bucky worked himself into a sitting position to eat. 

“Aw, yes,” Steve mumbled, mouth full of cherry goo, “this is exactly what I've been dreaming of. It's good, right?”

“Real good,” Bucky said, and it was, but even better was watching Steve's eyes flutter closed in happiness, watch his tongue come out to lick cream off his lips, watching as he cut himself another, even bigger slice, fork moving constantly between plate and mouth. He only paused to go pour himself a tall glass of milk, and to try, uncomfortably, to adjust the waistband of his jeans, pulling them below the bloating curve of his stomach. 

Bucky watched, mesmerized, as Steve worked his way through three quarters of the pie before he finally slumped back, breathing heavily, defeated. If Bucky hadn't been watching he might not have noticed, but as it was he saw that Steve's stomach had swelled subtly further outwards and was pressing up companionably against the fabric of Steve's t-shirt. 

“Gonna be good for breakfast tomorrow,” Steve said, eyeing the remains. 

But Bucky woke before Steve the next morning, and the pie was gone. Steve had finished it in the night. 

Bucky stared at the pie tin in the sink, and then, before he could think about what he was doing, went back to his bedroom, closed the door, dropped his pants, and got himself off faster than he ever had before. 

Usually when he jerked off it was slowly, silently, shamefully, terrified of being caught and sickeningly guilty at his behavior – who was he, to indulge himself? To pretend his body was his own, to handle it as if it was under his jurisdiction? 

But that morning, none of those thoughts entered his head, so caught up was he in the mad hot rush of lust and need that swept through him and emptied out in a gush of pure, sweet release.

When Steve emerged from his bedroom an hour later, Bucky had made a feast of eggs and pancakes and bacon, had stacked buttered toast in neat towers. 

“What's this?” Steve said, surprised. The bloat of his stomach hadn't gone down from the night before; in fact, it looked even more noticeable, a mound beneath his tight white t-shirt, cresting gently over the elastic of his boxers. 

It was not an apology, Bucky thought fiercely. He refused to feel guilty. It was a thank-you. A thank-you to Steve for showing him how to be a person again, in every way. 

Aloud, he only said, “Felt like cooking. Here, sit. Eat.”

And Steve did.

:::

“You remember that conversation we had about Steve's metabolism?” Tony said. They were standing in the corner of a terrible, government-mandated party, Tony drinking a root beer, Bucky drinking a real beer. Twenty feet away, Steve was parked by the appetizer table, plate piled high, laughing at something Nat had said as he popped a deviled egg into his mouth. He was wearing a soft blue sweater over a button-up, and Bucky could see from here that it was getting subtly snug; a little too tight across his shoulders, a little too close across the growing thickness of his belly. His jeans, too, were getting small, tight around his thighs and ass and cutting into the new meat of his lower back. 

“Yeah?” Bucky said absently. Steve started in on a beef satay skewer.

“Well, are you gonna tell him, or should I?” Tony said.

“Tell him what?” Bucky said, finally tearing his eyes away. 

“That he doesn't need to eat for two,” Tony said. “That his metabolism clearly isn't fast enough to handle the absolutely boggling amounts of food he piles on it.”

Bucky stared at Tony, his heart quickening. He hadn't realized Steve's gain was obvious enough that anyone else had noticed; he'd thought it was only him, who watched Steve so carefully all the time. 

“Look!” Tony groaned, clapping a hand over his eyes as Steve lifted an enormous slice of chocolate cake and began digging in. “I bet you my fortune that's not his first piece.”

“It's not,” Bucky said, “it's his second,” then wished he could swallow his words. He hadn't meant to reveal he'd been monitoring Steve quite so closely.

Tony didn't seem to notice, though. “I rest my case,” he said. “I mean, don't get me wrong, he looks good, very nineties chunk hunk, but someone's gotta tell him, and I vote you.”

“No,” Bucky said, annoyed. “Who cares?”

Tony opened his mouth indignantly, then closed it. Then, finally, shrugged. “Good point,” he said.

Steve, oblivious to their conversation, was drumming his fingers on his stomach while he surveyed the appetizers. 

“Bet you a hundred bucks he'll go for more cake,” Bucky said confidently. 

“Bet he'll go for the brie wheel,” Tony said, and they shook. Bucky could've told him he was vastly underestimating Steve's sweet tooth, but why forfeit a hundred dollars?

As they watched, breath bated, he ate two more deviled eggs and five mini quiches, then a handful of nuts and chocolate. Then, glancing around guiltily, like a little kid, he picked up another piece of the chocolate cake, and Tony howled so loudly in disappointment that Steve finally glanced over at them. 

“Can't beat me in my best subject,” Bucky said smugly, holding out his metal hand, and Tony slapped a hundred dollar bill into it as Steve ambled over, already chewing a bite of the cake. This was about as close to giggling as Bucky had come since 1940, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Tony struggling to contain a grin. 

“What're you two smiling about?” Steve said, genuinely curious, easing another rich, buttercream bite between his lips. Up close, Bucky could see the delicate pink glow that came to his cheeks when he'd overeaten, the slight lowering of his eyelids, and it occurred to him that while Steve could not get drunk, perhaps being so full approximated the same slow, relaxed feeling. He himself felt relaxed and happy just looking at him. 

“You,” Tony said. “Glad to see someone's enjoying that cake.”

And, to Bucky's intense jealousy, he poked Steve in the stomach, his finger sinking in a surprising degree. 

“Yeah, it's delicious,” Steve said. “What bakery is it from?”

“Nana Oh, down on 26th,” Tony said. “Best cake in the city.”

“The food is the best part of these parties,” Steve said, chasing down the last bite. “The only good part.”

“Have you had the brie wheel?” Tony said. “It's to die for.”

“Oh?” Steve said, perking up, and headed back over to the table, still licking chocolate off his lips.

“Ah, let him have his fun,” Tony said fondly. “Lord knows he's usually rigid enough.”

:::

Steve had always handled his body with a certain distressing degree of casualness. When he'd been small, he'd thrown his body into situations far beyond what it could handle, fighting, staying out too late, walking miles in the freezing cold. It was like he willfully ignored the truth of his body, so frustrated with himself and his own weakness that he'd sublimated it entirely. 

After he'd gotten big, his casual treatment of his body made more sense: it was simply very hard to do any lasting damage, and so why should he worry about it? In the army, he'd handled his body with the same brutal efficiency with which he fought, taking good enough care of it but never paying much attention to it, never paying himself any kindnesses. Sure, he brushed his hair, washed his face, but not with any interest or pride. He never did things just because they felt good. It had worried Bucky, back then – back before he'd had even bigger concerns. 

So it was nice to see him so indulgent, Bucky thought. And this pattern of inattention explained, too, Steve's complete obliviousness to the fact that he was putting on weight. Not past-tense, put on, but putting, active verb. Every day, with every bite, Steve was putting on weight.

And it was driving Bucky completely crazy.

He would sit at the table in the mornings and watch as Steve ambled out from his bedroom, blond hair rumpled, eyes sleepy, one hand invariably tapping or patting or scratching his belly, bloated from the previous evening's excess. Bucky could see his pajamas – boxers and that sinful white t-shirt – getting tighter with every passing day, shirt tight over his rounder pecs, stretching over his softer back, clinging to his hips where they'd begun to curve gently over his waistband, pulled tight across his firm mound of a stomach, his belly-button a clear outline that began to greet Bucky each morning like an old friend. The shirt was getting shorter, too; it had used to hang down over Steve's waistband, but it rucked up, now, especially when he moved. It crept upwards, wrinkling below his pecs and showcasing a pale, sweet slice of his lower belly where it had begun to round out over his boxers. As the shirt got shorter, Steve tugged his boxers lower, trying subconsciously to make room for his belly, to no avail. Bucky could see the red marks on his hips when Steve tugged his boxers down, then tugged his shirt down after them, tugging it again a minute later when it rode up. 

It wasn't just his pajamas that were too small, though – it was everything he owned. How he hadn't noticed was absolutely beyond Bucky. 

When they weren't fighting – and they hadn't been for the past few months, things blessedly slow – Steve wore what was essentially a uniform: a button-up over a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. If it was warm, a sweater, too. In the house, he always shucked his button-up and walked around in shirtsleeves and jeans. 

Now, Bucky could see the button-ups beginning to wrinkle across his broader chest, bunching beneath his armpits as the cloth tried to move around his belly, which was beginning to strain his buttons when he sat down. When he took off his button-ups in the evenings, his t-shirts were all getting snugger, his belly a solid presence beneath the material, pushing outwards more and more each day. 

It was the jeans, though, that should have tipped Steve off. 

“Mmphf,” Steve huffed, shoving the last bite of his second meatball sub into his mouth and then flopping back onto the couch, his breath audible from where Bucky sat a few feet away. He arched his back, clearly uncomfortable, and his stuffed belly peeked out from the bottom of his t-shirt. He'd had nearly an entire liter of Coke, too, not to mention an order of onion rings and most of Bucky's fries, and he looked positively thick, his belly round and swollen. He arched his back again, and Bucky saw how his jeans were cutting cruelly into the chub on his hips, and leaving a painful-looking red mark on his lower belly. 

“Baklava?” Bucky said innocently, offering Steve the foil-wrapped squares of buttery, honeyed pastry filled with nuts. 

Steve took one and put the whole thing into his mouth, smiling his thanks at Bucky, and then, chewing, he took the entire package and set it on his lap for easy access, arching his back again in that strange catlike movement, then tucking both thumbs into the waistband of his pants and tugging, confused, trying to make room for his bloated stomach. He put another piece baklava into his mouth, crumbs landing on the upper curve of his belly, and Bucky had to almost sit on his hands to resist reaching over to brush them off. 

“This is so good,” Steve said, around another huge mouthful, then frowned down at the crumbs that fell from his lips. He brushed them away himself, and Bucky saw, with a clarity not unlike religious ecstasy, that his rounding belly jiggled ever so slightly beneath his fingers, and when he craned his head his chin was beginning to hint at softness. How could he see the crumbs, but not the belly beneath him? 

“Mmphf,” Steve said again, that little grunt of fullness, tugging his shirt down and trying again to adjust his pants. Finally, lazily, he simply undid his jeans button, letting out a tired, relieved sigh as his belly pushed out joyously between the flaps of his pants. He pulled his zipper down an inch or two to get even more breathing room, and wriggled in his seat, testing this newfound freedom before picking up another square of baklava and pushing it into his mouth. He was breathing around the food, Bucky saw, taking little sips of air as he chewed, mouth partially open, one sticky hand still resting on his fly, thumb rubbing the exposed skin of his lower belly in little, unconscious strokes. 

“S'good,” he said again, more of a sigh, and began nibbling the last piece of baklava, slowly, cheeks bright. 

“Really good,” Bucky agreed, watching his lips. 

:::

“You okay?” Bucky asked, a week or so later. They were with Sam, in line for hot dogs on a bright, warm New York day in the park, both of them in baseball caps and sunglasses, trying to blend in with the civilians. Steve was fidgeting next to him, trying to get a good grip and pull up jeans that were simply too tight to budge. 

“Hot out,” Steve said, giving up on his pants. He was wearing a light jacket, and Bucky could see that beneath it, his belly was beginning to push against the buttons of his shirt, straining them even when he wasn't seated. Even as he watched, Steve reached to pluck uncomfortably at his shirt, tugging it up so it rested, wrinkled, in the little crest between his belly and his pecs, too-short around his lower midsection, one tail coming untucked. 

“It's barely sixty-five degrees,” Sam said, exchanging an amused glance with Bucky. 

Steve acknowledged this with a nod, arching his back a little in a movement that had started to become habit; a vain bid to push his pants down and push his shirt up at the same time, give his growing belly more room. Obligingly, the shirt eased up even further beneath his jacket, coming untucked completely, but his pants stayed put. 

Bucky and Sam ordered two hot dogs each, but Steve ordered five chili cheese dogs without even batting an eye, smiling in satisfaction as the man handed him his cardboard box. They found a park bench to sit on, and for a while all was quiet as they ate their lunch. Bucky was between Sam and Steve, and he could feel Steve moving around next to him, arching his back, huffing in frustration, but eating with great enjoyment all the while. 

Despite his larger meal, Steve finished first and stood to throw away his trash, then stayed standing, one hand hovering around his waistband like he wanted to undo his button but wouldn't, not in public. He wasn't wearing a belt, and when he shrugged out of his jacket, his shirt rode up enough that Bucky could see how the waistband of his jeans was folded down, crushed by the swell of his stomach. 

“Who wants ice cream?” Steve said cheerfully, tossing his jacket on the bench and looking at them. “No one? You don't mind if I go grab a cone?”

“You do you,” Sam said, and they watched as Steve walked slowly away in the direction of the ice cream stand. From behind, Bucky could see how his back was broader, his dorito-shape thickening out, a little dip at his hips beneath his shirt where his jeans were too snug. His ass looked broader, too, flattened a little by the tightness of the denim, and the jeans were pretty much skintight all the way down to his knees. 

“Is it just me,” Sam said, “or has our brave Captain been packing it on?”

“Not just you,” Bucky said, color rushing to his face. 

“Gotta be, what, twenty pounds? More?” Sam shook his head in impressed disbelief. “He has no idea, does he?”

“Don't think so,” Bucky said affectionately. 

“Well, I'm not gonna tell him,” Sam said. “Are you gonna tell him?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus, look at the size of that cone,” Sam groaned. “It's as big as his head.”

“Yep.”

“Getting broad in the bean, is what my ma used to say,” Sam said. “Getting comfortable.”

“I'm glad he's comfortable,” Bucky said, a little too fiercely, and Sam glanced at him, smiling. 

“Oh, me too,” he said. “But don't you think he'd be even more comfortable with some new jeans?”

“Probably,” Bucky conceded. 

“You guys are missing out,” Steve said as he approached. He had three flavors of ice cream on a big, chocolate-and-nut covered waffle cone, and he finished it as they walked, moving slowly. He had his jacket slung over one arm, and he'd rested that hand on his belly, unconsciously letting it settle right where it began to curve out from his chest. A few more weeks, it'd be an honest-to-goodness gut, Bucky thought. What'd it look like under that button-up? A swollen mound of creamy, tight skin, a little jiggle to it. Dimples starting to form above his ass. Bucky licked his lips as Steve licked his cone. 

When they got home that evening, Steve went immediately into his bedroom and padded back out in sweatpants, button-up gone. Bucky had never seen Steve in sweatpants before, and the sight made his mouth go dry. Unconstrained by denim, his ass was round and wobbled a bit as he moved, and the new thickness at his hips and waist was even more smoothly apparent with no denim squishing them down. The sweatpants had curved into a smile below his belly, and his t-shirt began inching upwards almost immediately.

“This heat is really getting to me,” Steve said, noticing Bucky's eyes on him. “Just not ready for summer, I guess. Been uncomfortable all day. This is so much better.”

Bucky couldn't think of anything to say except, “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Steve said agreeably. 

'Could eat' apparently meant, 'Destroy nearly a whole pan of lasagna and a six pack of beer and finish it off with half a package of Oreos and two bowls of caramel ice cream, then chug a glass of chocolate milk and eat a Cupcake Bar for no good earthly reason.'

“Oof,” Steve said, stretched out on his back on the couch, one socked foot up in Bucky's lap. “I'm so full.”

Bucky could see that. Steve's belly was clearly packed-tight, rounded into the air and rising and falling with his strained breathing. Even his belly button looked wider than normal. 

“You've got some appetite,” Bucky said, squeezing Steve's toes and willing his dick to stay down so it didn't poke Steve in the foot. 

“I love this,” Steve said suddenly. “I like being here with you, just the two of us. I like eating with you, watching movies with you, just sitting next to you. I still can't believe we get to have this.”

“Me neither, pal,” Bucky said softly. And despite his fantasies, if this was all he ever got from Steve, he could die happy. 

“Who'd'a thought, two boys from Brooklyn would end up in the most expensive tower in Manhattan,” Steve said. He reached out a drowsy hand, fumbling around on the coffee table – for the half-eaten package of Oreos, Bucky realized in astonishment. Sure enough, Steve's hand landed on the package and he pulled it up and rested it on the bulge of his belly, resumed eating with a kind of luxurious satisfaction. Bucky had to hastily shove a thick pillow underneath Steve's foot and pray he couldn't feel the urgent twitching of Bucky's dick in his jeans. 

“But who cares about the apartment,” Steve continued, pushing another Oreo into his mouth before he'd even swallowed his last. He chewed for a minute, then said, “I could have all the Oreos in the world and it wouldn't mean nothin' without you.” As if to prove his point, he ate another Oreo, swallowed thickly and reached out immediately for another. He was so food-drunk his Brooklyn accent was coming out, and Bucky melted into a puddle of speechless goo. He squeezed Steve's toes again, hard, trying to convey everything he couldn't speak aloud, and Steve nodded like he'd heard him.

They stayed that way for a long time. Long enough for Steve to polish off the Oreos and fall sweetly asleep, puffing uncomfortably with fullness even in his sleep, one hand slipped up under his shirt and cupping the painful-looking tightness of his stuffed tummy. Bucky watched him until he, too, fell asleep.

:::

“We've gotta do something,” Nat said.

“Do something about what?” Bucky said, sipping his fruity cocktail.

“About Steve's pants,” she said. “It hurts just to look at him.”

Bucky vehemently disagreed. Looking at Steve felt better than just about anything. But he followed Natasha's gaze to where Steve stood waiting for the men's room in the corner of the Japanese restaurant. Steve was loosening his belt, furtively, like he just couldn't wait a second longer, and as Bucky and Nat watched he popped the top button of his jeans and quickly did his belt up again, on the loosest notch, then tugged his button-up down over it. Then, a second later, arched his back, pushing out his tummy so his shirt would inch up and settle more comfortably above the top curve of it. A real curve, arching out proudly below a pair of pecs that were rounder than ever, getting soft beneath Steve's t-shirts. He sucked in a visible breath and tried to tug his pants up in the back, but they weren't budging. 

“I mean, that's just sad,” Natasha said, clinking her blood-red nails across her teacup. “We haven't even eaten yet. God, look how cute he is, he has no idea how chunky he's getting.”

Bucky was, predictably, hard as a diamond in three seconds flat. “You think he's getting chunky?” he said, proud that his voice was steady. 

Natasha looked at him incredulously. “No,” she said, “I think he GOT chunky.”

“You think it's cute?”

Natasha smiled, slow and knowing. “Yeah. Don't you?”

“Um,” Bucky said. 

“He needs new jeans, though,” she said. “Can't you, I don't know, throw some subtle hints around?”

“Can't you?” Bucky said, and she gave him a look of exasperation. “I'll try,” Bucky conceded.

“Some bigger shirts wouldn't hurt, either,” she said, watching Steve as he made his way back through the crowded restaurant towards them. “That one's about to pop its buttons. I'd love to see that.” She propped her chin on her fist, looking dreamy. “Maybe he'll pop 'em tonight.”

“Shhh!” Bucky said, delighted and scandalized as Steve eased down into the seat next to him, tummy rounding out and pressing into his shirt as he sat. His buttons really were straining, showing gaps of red t-shirt beneath them. Steve leaned back, squirming a little and tugging at his shirt, rearranging it again so it gathered up under his chest and sloped a little more comfortably over his belly. 

“Should we get a couple orders of tempura for the table?” Steve said, oblivious. “Maybe some sushi rolls to share?” He rubbed his hands together, examining the menu with obvious delight, his chin softening as he looked down. 

When the waiter came, Steve ordered the tempura and three rolls of sushi, and Nat added, “Let's get some pork gyoza, too,” and smiled at the waiter, showing all her teeth. “Fried.”

“I'll have the large pork ramen,” Steve said. “And the teriyaki beef. You can bring them out together. Another beer please, too. Thanks.”

When the appetizers came out, Steve raised his eyebrows appreciatively at the six steaming plates. “Didn't realize we ordered so much,” he said, already piling his own plate high with tempura, gyoza and sushi. Bucky took a single gyoza, a single piece of sushi, and a single piece of tempura. Nat followed suite, and then they watched, both of them avoiding one another's eyes, trying not to break out into laughter, as Steve unconcernedly ate every. Single. Appetizer. By himself. 

“Oh,” Steve said, when the waiter set down an enormous bowl of ramen next to a huge, heavy plate of beef and rice. “I forgot I ordered two mains. Shoulda gone a little easier on those gyoza,” he said, reaching for his chopsticks, undeterred.

Halfway through the meal, Natasha caught Bucky's eye and mouthed, The Buttons! Bucky glanced over to see Steve hunched over his bowl of soup, slurping noodles with great gusto, and, sure enough, his poor buttons were straining so badly they made little ripples across his pudgy stomach. Bucky could his t-shirt poking through and, a few inches below his waistband, even got a glimpse of bare belly oozing out between the buttons, from where his t-shirt had ridden up. 

“Urrp,” Steve said, sitting back, hand to his mouth. “Scuse me. God, it's hot in here, with the soup.”

And, after a moment's hesitation, he began to unbutton his shirt, sucking in a little so he could undo the strained buttons, his belly rounding out inch-by-inch with relief as he released it. When he undid the final button and his tummy surged roundly forwards, it was suddenly, breathtakingly obvious just how much weight he really had put on. He leaned back, tugging down at his unbuttoned jeans, and he looked for all the world like a sausage in a too-small casing. His chunky hips rounded out over his tight pants, and his belly jiggled firmly as he squirmed, tugging down his t-shirt so it covered the bare inch of stomach that was squeezed out over his waistband. In this shadowy restaurant light, the pudgy rounding of his pecs was even more obvious, firm handfuls beneath his shirt, and Bucky had to bite down hard on a piece of chicken so he wouldn't lunge across the table and lock his teeth around that gorgeous, meaty chest instead. 

“Aren't you guys hot?” Steve said, returning to his food, and Bucky looked up to find Natasha beaming openly. 

“Very hot,” she said. “Boiling.”

Steve was pink-cheeked and puffing by the time he raised the soup bowl to his lips and chugged the last of the oily broth, but he turned almost immediately to the few bites of beef left in a greasy puddle of rice on his other plate. He ate them quickly and neatly with the chopsticks and then paused for a moment, wiping sticky fingers on the napkin in his lap before he reached for his fifth beer and drained it, throat bobbing. 

He drank beer like water, Bucky had noticed, because to him it was no more intoxicating than water – but, as Bucky's brain helpfully pointed out, it was considerably higher in calories. 

“Huurp,” Steve said. “Sorry. Urrlp.” He signaled the waiter for another beer, and when it came he rolled the cold bottle across his belly in a soothing, subconscious gesture that left a stripe of condensation across the widest part of his stomach. He took several long, loud gulps, leaning back to try and adjust the metal buckle of his belt, which Bucky could see was leaving painful-looking red divots in the little patch of swollen underbelly that had ballooned out over it. 

“May we interest you in dessert this evening?” the waiter asked, and Bucky and Natasha looked at each other, and then to Steve. 

“Green tea ice cream sounds pretty good,” Steve said, though his long fingers were prodding consolingly at the stuffed, straining mound of his t-shirted tummy. “Refreshing. I guess I'll have a piece of that mango coconut-cake, too, please. And another beer.”

Nat got ice cream, and Bucky got a decaf cappuccino. When dessert came, Steve dumped the big dish of ice cream unceremoniously atop his cake and then surveyed it for a moment, as if looking for structural weaknesses before he sucked in a difficult breath and dug in. 

“Wow, I'm full,” he complained halfway through, but it didn't seem to occur to him to stop eating. His stomach had surged out impossibly further, and he kept holding his cold beer to the side of it, pressing in although the poor stretched skin had almost no give anymore. It must be so warm, Bucky thought, so taut and heavy. His mouth watered a little and he covered it with a sip of cappuccino. 

They took a private car back to the tower, Nat in front, Steve and Bucky in the backseat, Steve in constant, uncomfortable motion, arching his back in discomfort and then curling over his round tummy again. His t-shirt had ridden up in the back and Bucky could see the soft, enticing curve of what threatened to turn into a love-handle. 

“I think I ate too much,” Steve confessed to Bucky, shyly confiding, as if Bucky couldn't see that, as if the evidence wasn't right there in Steve's swollen body. 

“Think so, pal,” Bucky agreed. 

“These pants are killin' me.”

“You could unzip them,” Bucky suggested, his heart beating faster at the mere thought.

Steve assessed himself for a moment, one hand resting on his food-swollen belly, his breathing still shallow, cheeks still red, then he nodded sharply, seriously, with all the gravitas of the battle captain he was. He reached down and undid his belt with a clank, then slooooowly inched his zipper downwards until his round tummy had settled comfortably between the flaps of his pants. 

“Ugh,” Steve groaned. “That's so much better.”

To Bucky's disappointment, he tied his button-up around his hips in an attempt to conceal his unzipped pants, though not before Bucky caught a little look at the chunky, red-marked underbelly that had surged outwards so happily. He wanted to smooth out those angry lines with his lips. 

Steve was silent in the elevator up to their quarters, just the achy little wheeze of his breath and the occasional, painful-sounding burp. It was a comfortable silence, though, contented and satisfied. 

“I definitely ate too much,” Steve said again. 

“You were hungry,” Bucky said. 

“Feels good,” Steve murmured, so quietly Bucky wasn't sure he heard right. Then, louder, “Just gotta sleep it off.”

“That's right,” Bucky said. “Sleep it off. Tomorrow's a new day.” It was something Steve's mother always used to say, and Steve smiled at him, his flushed face so sweet and warm and open that Bucky almost did it – he almost leaned forward and kissed him right on those parted pink lips.

Then the elevator door opened, and Bucky moved quickly away, thankful he hadn't done something he would've regretted. Steve was slower to follow, and at the doorway to his bedroom he paused and said, “Well. Good night, Bucky.” Oddly formal.

“Good night, Steve,” Bucky said. “Sleep tight.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. “Yeah. I will.”

Bucky didn't sleep a wink.

:::

“Hey, Stevie,” Bucky said the next morning. He said it casually, as if he hadn't been psyching himself up for this moment. “What size pants do you wear?”

“Pants?” Steve said. 

“Yeah, I'm gonna put in an order for some new threads. Nothin' fancy, just haven't had anything new in a while, you know? I thought maybe you'd want to, um, maybe you'd want to update, too. 

“Oh,” Steve said, “yeah, sure. Um, my jeans are a 30,” he said, looking doubtfully down at the sweatpants he was wearing. “But maybe... maybe 32s would be better.”

“Get him 34s,” Natasha said, when Bucky reported back. “Maybe 32, my ass. Is that all he said about it?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “And then he ate half a box of frosted flakes and a pound of bacon.”

Bucky ordered Steve two pairs of 34s and threw some new, larger button-ups in the cart, too, but perversely decided to hold off on t-shirts. He wasn't ready yet to lose the lovely sight of Steve's pudgy tummy poking out the bottom of his too-small clothes.

Another problem presented itself, however, before the new clothes were even delivered.

“Darn,” Steve said, his voice strained as he sucked in his belly as best he could. “I can't get it zipped.”

“It” was his Captain America uniform, and while it did a pretty good job of holding in and concealing any extra jiggle, it could only go so far. Steve had apparently reached the outer limits of its stretch. He could barely bend his arms, it was so tight across his back and shoulders, and he was inches away from being able to do up the side zipper. A pale wedge of thick waist and soft love handle pudged out proudly. 

“What if we open the abdominal vent?” Nat said, coming forward and unfastening what Bucky privately thought of as the belly-window, a mesh panel that provided extra breathability – and extra room for a gut. Steve's bare stomach pressed roundly forward against the mesh, a convex slope that arced out from his body and was framed perfectly in the mesh. Triumphantly, Nat managed to haul the stubborn side zipper upwards. 

“I can't fight like this,” Steve said indignantly, hands on his hips, which only made his round tummy seem bigger. “For one thing, I look ridiculous; for another, look, I can still barely bend over.” He demonstrated, attempting to sink into a squat, but the rigid tightness of the suit was such that he could hardly bend his knees. 

Bucky's knees, on the other hand, were threatening to buckle.

Sam raised his phone and took a quick picture. “Snapchat gold,” he said.

“There's extra tactical gear in the back of the jet,” Tony said impatiently. “Big. Stretchy. Go, go put it on, and there's body armor of all sizes in the compartment right near it.”

Steve disappeared through the back of the cabin, and Tony shook his head. “It's gonna cost thousands of dollars to alter that suit,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Thousands! And Captain Cheeseburger couldn't care less, la dee da, where's my milkshake.”

“Send me that snapchat,” Clint directed. 

“Me too,” Bucky and Nat chorused as one.

“I don't like being left out,” Tony said primly. “Better send it to me, too.”

That night, after the fight was over and won, Bucky walked into their living room to find Steve standing before the dark reflective surface of their living room window, examining himself in profile, though the reflection was far from clear. He was wearing sweatpants and one of his adorably snug t-shirts, and he was eating a Cupcake Bar with one hand and gently stroking his belly with the other, outlining the roundness of it thoughtfully. 

“Hey Buck,” he said. “I've put on a little weight, huh?”

Bucky, arrested by such a beautiful picture, had no idea how to answer. “Uh,” he said nervously. He didn't want to lie, but he didn't want to make Steve self-conscious, either. “Yeah. I guess you have. A little.”

“Thanks for ordering those new clothes,” Steve said. He finished his Cupcake Bar and padded barefoot into the kitchen, Bucky following. “I didn't even notice how tight my pants were getting,” Steve continued, opening the cabinets for a bag of sour cream and onion chips, then pausing, staring down at it. “I probably shouldn't eat this.”

“Why not?” Bucky said.

“Well,” Steve said, and tapped his belly with one accusatory figure. “Can't fit into my suit, for one thing.”

“Tony's already started altering it,” Bucky said. 

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “A stitch here, tuck there, it's no big deal. And anyway, you look... you look good, Steve.”

“I don't care how I look,” Steve said quickly, but there was a vulnerability in his blue eyes that just about broke Bucky's heart.

“Well, it's true,” Bucky said. “You look great. You look strong, healthy. Shit, when I think about what you looked like before the war... You could gain a hundred pounds and I'd throw you a party.”

Steve turned away, trying to hide his smile, and Bucky stepped closer, aching to reach out and touch him, show him just how gorgeous he was, how much Bucky loved his body. Steve looked back, his eyes big and hopeful and so familiar, so beloved, so unbelievably precious that Bucky nearly wept. He couldn't do this, couldn't ruin the one good thing in his life. If Steve looked at him with disgust, Bucky would die: he knew this with absolute certainty. He would die. 

“So,” Bucky said, stepping backwards. “Eat your chips, and I'll order us a couple pizzas. Coke, breadsticks, the works.”

Steve was quiet, his expression unreadable. Then he said, “Right. Sure.”

“Meat lover's?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Get some hot wings, too. Mozzarella sticks. Garlic bread.” He ripped open the bag of chips and plunged his hand in defiantly, almost despairingly. “It's just a couple pounds, right? Who cares. Who fucking cares.”

Bucky was surprised at the profanity, but he said, “Right, Stevie. No one cares.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey,” Clint said, sidling up next to Bucky at another one of Tony's horrible parties. “Think you should check on your boy, there.”

“What?” Bucky said, eyes instinctually seeking out Steve through the crowds.

“On the couch,” Clint said, nudging Bucky to look, and Bucky saw Steve sitting comfortably in his new jeans and button-up, holding an enormous plate of food and eating it with languid intensity. In these new clothes, Steve didn't look so swollen and pudgy; he looked simply thick, from head to toe. The perfect round swell of his belly was regrettably concealed beneath the folds of his shirt, though Bucky knew that underneath the button-up was an uncomfortably snug blue t-shirt, probably riding up over that luscious curve. “That's his fourth plate,” Clint said. “Yeah, I've been counting. I think he's set to eat himself right out of those nice new duds. He was just in time with those jeans, too.”

“In time?” Bucky said, playing the fool. For some reason he was longing to hear Clint say more.

“I mean, he was almost busting out of his old ones,” Clint said. “He's really put on some weight, huh? Gotta be at least thirty pounds, I bet. Most of it's going right here,” he slapped his own flat stomach, “but you can see it in his face, too, around the jawline. Don't you think?”

“Haven't really noticed,” Bucky lied, and Clint gave him a skeptical, wiseass look. 

“All right, stick to your story,” Clint said. “All I'm saying is, he's eaten plenty tonight; he can't be hungry. But he's still going, which means he's bored. So let's go talk to him, entertain him a little.”

Bucky was happy for an excuse to talk to Steve; he often tried to avoid him at these functions, trying to let him do his Captain America thing and socialize without a glowering ex-assassin shadow, but Clint was right, he did look bored. 

“Hey fellas,” Steve said as they came over, Clint flopping down to throw an arm across the back of the couch. There it was, the lovely pink flush that broadcast just how much he'd already eaten, the slowness of his food-drunk voice. His plate was nearly clean, and as Bucky sank onto the couch beside him, Steve stuffed a last breaded mushroom into his mouth, smiling full-cheeked before he swallowed. 

“Is this boring or what?” Clint said loudly, then looked up with fake-guilt as Tony came over to stand above them, plate in hand. “Oops,” Clint said. 

“Oh, I know it's boring,” Tony said. “It's no big secret. Nobody likes these things. Necessary evil. Cap, cake. Cake, Cap.” He handed an enormous piece of what looked like carrot cake down to Steve, who set his own empty plate on the floor and took Tony's offering with a pleased smile.

“I didn't know there was cake,” he said, piling himself a big forkful and wasting no time in getting it to his mouth. 

“They just brought it out,” Tony said, practically winking at Bucky. “Little bird told me that cake is your weakness.”

“S'true” Steve said thickly. There was frosting on his lips, and Bucky licked his own lips longingly. He felt very conflicted towards Tony, all of a sudden; happy, because Tony gave Steve cake, and jealous, because Bucky wanted to give Steve cake. 

“Enjoy,” Tony said, and wandered away again. 

“Want a bite?” Steve offered, but Bucky and Clint both shook their heads, watching as Steve made short work of the huge piece, dragging the tines of his fork across his plate to scrape up the last of the frosting. He leaned down to set his empty cake dish atop his empty appetizer dish, and Bucky saw him wince as he leaned forward, as if his full belly was protesting the movement. 

“I'll get rid of those for you,” Clint said, bouncing to his feet and leaning down to take them. He never could stay still for long when he wasn't working. 

“While you're up,” Steve said, raising a tentative hand. “Maybe another piece of that cake? And a beer?”

Clint raised his eyebrows but said, “You got it, Cap,” and disappeared into the crowd. Steve let out a heavy sigh and leaned back into the couch. He gave his belly a few absentminded pats, and smiled at Bucky. 

“Havin' fun?” Steve said.

“No,” Bucky said, and Steve laughed.

“Yeah, me neither,” he said. 

“Wish everyone would go on home,” Bucky said. “Wish we were alone.”

“Yeah?” Steve said, and his tongue came out to swipe across his plump lower lip. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, heart suddenly beating too fast in his chest.

“Chocolate stout okay, Cap?” Clint said, materializing from behind a woman in an expensive red suit. He was balancing two tall glasses of dark, creamy beer in one hand, and a piece of cake in the other, this piece even more extravagantly large than the first. 

“That's fine,” Steve said. “Thanks.” He rested the plate on his knee and took a few long pulls on the beer as Clint settled in beside him again, then took a huge bite of cake. “Hate these parties,” Steve said. “But I love the food.”

“I've noticed,” Clint said mildly, sipping his own beer, and Bucky shot him a dirty look, but Steve didn't seem to notice, just forked another thick mouthful and chugged some more beer. Already the glass was almost gone. This close, he could see that Steve's belly wasn't completely camouflaged beneath his new shirt; it was still a real presence, though it appeared solid and bulky rather than round. Again Bucky thought of the too-tight shirt lying beneath the well-fitting facade of his button-up, and he smiled. It felt like a little secret, something just for him. 

“Urrp,” Steve said as he finished off the cake, and put a belated fist to his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, then let out a delicate hiccup that seemed to surprise him. Another hiccup followed, and he winced, putting a hand to the side of his belly, wincing again with another hiccup. “Oof,” he said. “I probably didn't need that second piece of cake. Hic! Ouch. Hic! Ugh. Hic!”

“Need a drink?” Clint said, holding out his beer glass, still mostly full, and Steve accepted it. Bucky expected him to take a small sip, but instead he tilted his head back and drained the entire thing, his throat working audibly as he drank. When he was finished, he sucked in a wheezy breath, seemed to concentrate, and then let out a low, wet, rolling belch that had Clint laughing helplessly at his side. 

“Sorry,” Steve said, red-faced, “sorry, but wow, that feels better. Hurrp. Buck, I think that's it for me. You can stay if you want, but --”

“I'll come with you,” Bucky said. “Clint, are you...”

“I'm good,” Clint said, waving them away. “I'm about ready to jet, myself.”

As they left, saying their goodbyes, Steve made a detour to the appetizer table and cut himself a big hunk of brie, which he slathered on a piece of baguette and munched as they finally made it out the door.

“Wanted something salty,” he explained, licking his fingers clean, a little short of breath. “You know when you're hungry for something even when you're not really hungry?”

“Yes,” said Bucky fervently. 

:::

Steve's new Captain America suit fit like a dream – it was even stretchier than the first one, Tony explained. Roomier. Forgiving. Concealing. In it, Steve looked thick as hell, all broad shoulders and broad chest and wide torso, belly mostly held in by the elastic support of the fabric. His ass looked firm and round, eminently bitable, and his thighs were strong and juicy. He looked like a tank. 

In the suit, you wouldn't know how soft those thighs were getting. How jiggly that round ass really was, how his belly was a ripening peach and his broad back was beginning to crease just a bit where it met his chunky hips. You wouldn't know that Captain America was getting seriously chubby. 

“He realizes we had to tailor a state-of-the-art piece of military equipment just because he can't keep his appetite in check, right?” Tony said to Bucky. “I mean, look at him, that's his third cheeseburger, I kid you not.”

This was at a barbecue on the rooftop of Clint's building in Bed-Stuy. Bucky knew full well that it was Steve's third cheeseburger. He knew, also, that Steve had had a plate of potato salad, a plate of macaroni salad, and five beers on top of those burgers. Plus a Cupcake Bar on the ride over. 

“He's hungry,” Bucky said, shrugging.

“Didn't you just get him that shirt?” Tony said. “Am I hallucinating, or is it already getting a little tight?”

Bucky's dick was firming up rapidly, and he shifted from foot to foot. Tortured himself a little more by saying, “Looks fine to me. Where is it getting tight?”

“In the chest, look,” Tony said. “And he's really getting a gut, I can see it from here. See how the buttons are starting to pull a little?”

“Hmm,” Bucky said noncommittally, watching Steve laugh at something a skinny pink-haired girl was saying. 

“I'm not judging him,” Tony said, “Hell, we all have our vices. I'm merely observing. Merely noticing, very politely, that Captain America is piling on the pounds.”

Steve had no idea they were watching, of course; if he had, he might not have chosen that moment to sneak a hand up his button-up so he could pull down the wickedly snug t-shirt beneath it. As it was, he afforded Tony and Bucky an unfettered view of the round lower curve of his tummy, poking out over his waistband with swollen firmness. 

“Hopeless,” Tony muttered. “Oh jesus, he's eating a hot dog.”

:::

“Look how round he's getting,” Nat marveled. She'd come over to watch a movie, and Steve had fallen asleep on the couch after eating enough Chinese food for six people. He still held a half-drunk beer loosely in his hand, and the other hand was draped over his tummy, rising and falling shallowly in his stuffed state. He'd shrugged out of his button-up halfway through the film, and was in one of his old t-shirts; one that had used to be quite loose, Bucky recalled, but now was pulled tight over the swell of his belly and wrinkled below his chubby pecs. A peek of bloated underbelly was lapping his waistband.

“Shh,” Bucky said, glancing at Steve. 

“Oh, he's out,” Nat said unconcernedly. “Not surprising, the amount of MSG he put away.” She hovered a hand over his face, but didn't touch him. “He's gonna get a double chin.”

“He will not,” Bucky said, casually draping a pillow across his lap. 

“Yes, look,” Nat said, gesturing to the little pool of softness Steve had sunk his head down into. “He's gotta know he's put on a hell of a lot of weight, right?”

“I don't know,” Bucky said honestly. “I don't think so. Steve's always been pretty disconnected from his body, especially visually-speaking. He doesn't even look in the mirror, not really.”

“That's sad,” Natasha said.

Steve stirred a little, then, and came awake, blinking blearily at them. “Oh,” he said. “Is the movie over?”

“Yeah, sleeping beauty,” Nat said. 

Steve yawned and pushed himself into a sit, belly mounding out over his jeans, t-shirt riding up even higher. His wide belly button was clearly outlined by the thin fabric. He tugged his shirt down absently, then leaned back and raked his fingernails back and forth across the stretched-taut skin of his tummy, accidentally pulling on the material of his t-shirt so it began to inch right back up again. Bucky could see a teeny poke of bare lower belly, and the faint red lines where his jeans button had bitten into him. Sitting, his pudgy pecs were beginning to settle on the upper curve of his stomach.

“Buck?” Steve said, turning sleepy eyes towards him. “We have any more of that peanut butter pie?”

“Think you left a couple pieces last night,” Bucky said. “Want a glass of milk with that?”

“Please,” Steve said, yawning agin. When Bucky came back into the living room, Nat was curled up against his shoulder, looking plenty sleepy, herself. Steve accepted the big piece of pie and began eating it slowly, drowsily, sucking on his fork and pausing every so often to dig his knuckles into the side of his belly, yawning. When he was finished, he leaned heavily forward, legs spread, wincing, to deposit the plate on the coffee table and gulp down the tall glass of milk. “Mmm,” he said, arching his back a little and palming his round belly; the same catlike movement he'd done when his pants were getting tight that first time around, and Bucky's face grew warm at the thought that the next size up in jeans was already getting snug. 

“Want the last piece?” Bucky said, and Natasha looked at him with steady amusement through her thick eyelashes.

Steve was scratching his belly with both hands, gently, rhythmically. “I shouldn't,” he said. “I've put on a few pounds, lately,” he added to Natasha, who managed to look disbelieving. 

“Go ahead,” Bucky said, his voice hoarse. “If you want it.”

“Sure,” Steve said, “why not?”

Bucky collected his plate and glass and brought them both back, the glass re-filled, the plate heavy with the rich pie. 

“Urrp,” Steve said, starting in on the pie. He ate it even more slowly than the first, sipping air around each mouthful, burping quietly, petting the increasingly bloated crest of his belly. “So full,” he murmured, just a few bites left. “Probably don't need to finish this.” But he did, of course, and the glass of milk, too, and he smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Oof,” he commented, thumbing at the hollow of his belly button. “Wow.”

“Nat's asleep,” Bucky said.

Steve glanced down to where Natasha was snoozing on his shoulder, and smiled. “I'm pretty comfy, myself,” he said. “I won't wake her. Ugh, think I'm too full to stand up, anyway.”

Bucky put the TV on silent to a nature documentary, and sat watching Steve out of the corner of his eye. Steve slipped a hand up under his tight t-shirt and kneaded the bloated lower curve of his belly for a bit, then took his hand out and began digging his fingers into the upper swell of it. Then he want back to the light, back-and-forth scratching. Bucky's own hand ached to do this for him, to soothe and pet and knead and scratch, and his throat grew thick with how badly he wanted to touch. After a while, Steve's hand stilled its motion, his head fell forward into his softening chin, and he started to snore. 

Carefully, Bucky draped a blanket over both him and Natasha, and went to his own room, alone, to relieve the excruciating tension of pure longing. 

:::

“I think he looks thicker than the last time I saw him,” Sam said.

“You saw him yesterday,” Bucky said.

“Yeah, well, what'd he eat yesterday? He's walking belly first, you know what I'm saying? Man, he has packed. It. On.”

Bucky shifted subtly in his chair, and beneath the cover of the fancy tablecloth he pressed the base of his hand into his dick. “You're the one who took him to an Italian restaurant. You know how much he loves spaghetti.”

“I love spaghetti, too, and you don't see me eating a family-size dish of alfredo. It said it right there on the menu, family size. Not to mention fried ravioli, calamari, and every damn piece of bread on the table.”

“You said you didn't want any bread.”

“I didn't want any bread!” Sam said. “Shh, he's coming.”

“They have tiramisu here,” Steve said, thumping heavily down in his chair. “I passed someone eating it. Looks great.”

“I'm sure it did,” Sam said.

“Or that molten chocolate lava cake sounds good.”

“Why not get both?” Sam said, but Steve missed the sass in his tone and nodded consideringly. 

“We should get some gelato, too,” Steve said.

“Of course we should,” Sam said. 

When their three desserts came, Steve ate most of them, to nobody's surprise but his own. “Sure you don't want some more?” he asked, spooning up the last of the gelato. “Bucky, help me with this tiramisu?” 

“You don't need any help,” Sam noted, and Bucky's dick twitched. He'd like to help, though not in the way Steve was thinking. He'd like to spread his flesh hand over the poor, overfed dome of Steve's gut and use his metal hand to gently spoon dessert into Steve's waiting, panting mouth. 

Steve hiccuped into his forkful of tiramisu, then touched his belly soothingly, a light pat-pat of his fingers. The new shirt was just a few months old but it was getting snugger by the day; it was beginning to ride up over the crest of Steve's stomach, and was stretched tight across his meatier chest. When Steve had swallowed the last sweet drop of dessert, chocolate still dark on his lips, he wriggled in his seat and arched his back. His shirt wrinkled upwards and he dug the heel of his hand into the side of his upper belly, just under his ribcage.

“Full?” Sam said, not without sympathy. 

“Yeah,” Steve grunted, tugging uncomfortably at the collar of his shirt. His cheeks were stained pink, like two apples, and when he dipped his head his chin was soft, jawline getting blurred with pudge. He leaned back and held his breath so he could tuck both thumbs beneath his waistband to give it a good yank down, trying to make room for the bloat of his enormous dinner, then, when that didn't work, tried pulling his pants up, instead, to no avail. Sighing, he gave up and let his belly roll back out over the buckle of his belt, his bulk expanding to fill out every crevice of his shirt. His eyes were half-mast, sated from his dinner, and when he caught Bucky looking, he gave him a slow, reflexive smile. 

“Bout ready to go home, Stevie?” Bucky said. 

“You're gonna have to roll him out of here,” Sam said.

“Yeah, give me a minute,” Steve agreed, patting his tummy with a shallow sigh. “Could use another beer, help this all go down.”

“For a guy who can't get drunk, you're really workin' on that beer belly,” Sam said, and Bucky shot him a dirty look. 

Steve's hand stilled over his stomach, and he looked down, chin showing that hint of a double, face showing some surprise, as if he hadn't expected to find himself so round beneath his hand. “Yeah,” he said, sounding confused. “Guess I am. Never much liked getting drunk, anyway – but I've always liked beer. Pint of cream ale,” he said to the attentive waiter. “Thanks. Huh. Guess it's not so good for me, though? Hadn't really thought about it.”

“Probably not bad for you,” Sam relented. “No worse than eating bread.”

The waiter came back with the beer, and Steve drank it slowly, pressing the cold glass now and then to the side of his stomach, belching softly and contentedly behind his hand. Each time he burped, his belly jumped and he winced, put a hand to it consolingly like it was an overexcited dog he had to calm. He drank the last few sips of beer with one hand pressed gently into the side of his gut, and Bucky realized with amazement that his stomach really did have sides, now, was pushing out in a dome that was beginning to get wide, too, not just round. 

“All right,” Steve said when he was finished. “Hurrlp. Now I'm ready.”

:::

A few days later, Steve came into the kitchen and said, “Bucky, I think Sam was right.”

“Right about what?” Bucky said.

Steve moved past him to get a tall glass of chocolate milk, and didn't answer for a moment, busy drinking. He poured himself another when the first was finished, and then turned, blushing a little. 

“I think I'm getting a beer belly,” he said. He was wearing sweatpants and one of his absurdly tight t-shirts, the thin fabric barely pulled down over the round jut of underbelly that was trying to push its way free. His hips were rounding out over his too-tight pants, and Bucky saw that there was a small crease beginning at his waist and circling around to his back. He was still obviously muscled, but his arms were thick with encroaching softness, too, and his shoulders were beginning to round. The tightness of his shirt called unbearable attention to the juicy roundness of his pudgy tits. His sweats were pinched around his waist and straining against his bigger, wider ass, tight around his thick thighs and bunching around his crotch. He looked like every one of Bucky's wet dreams come true. 

“I mean, look,” Steve said, when several long seconds went by and Bucky still hadn't managed to work up enough saliva to answer. He tugged down his t-shirt, trying to get it to cover him fully, then lay a palm across the slope of his tummy and glanced back up at Bucky. “My shirts are even getting snug.”

“Okay,” Bucky said finally. “I'll order you more today.”

“Yeah?” Steve said. “Thanks. And maybe I should lay off the beer for a week or two. I feel kinda... I mean, I know I've gained a few pounds, but I've been feeling pretty bloated lately.” He sat down at the table, belly rolling out in a firm curve, and he palmed it experimentally. “Shouldn't of had that six pack last night.”

“Right,” Bucky said. “Sure. Take a week off, see how you feel.”

“Think I will,” Steve said, and his stomach gave a squeaky little growl, as if in protest. Steve laughed, and Bucky relaxed, tension broken.

“You want to go out for breakfast?” Steve said. “Been a while since we've done that.”

Steve layered up, as always, pulling a baseball cap low down on his forehead and hiding those unforgettable baby blues behind a big pair of aviators, but Bucky privately thought his added weight was a better disguise than any clothes. 

At the diner, Steve ordered up an impressive spread of pancakes, a bagel sandwich with egg and cheese, bacon, and a cinnamon roll, and ate everything with his usual good cheer, gladly finishing Bucky's untouched hashbrowns. He washed it all down with a couple glasses of milk and a mocha, and when he was done he sat back in the booth contentedly, tummy round and firm beneath his straining button-up. 

He did that little motion that drove Bucky crazy, the uncomfortably arched back, the attempt to re-settle his pants beneath the swell of his underbelly and his tight shirt over the high bloated crest of it, and Bucky realized with a start that he was on the verge of outgrowing another size of clothes entirely. It had only been, what, three, four months since Bucky'd bought those new pants? And already they were nearly too tight to wear. 

How much weight had he put on, exactly? Bucky wondered. He'd started with 30s, and these pants were 34s, but he'd probably be more comfortable in a pair of 36s... How much weight did you have to gain to go up three whole pants sizes? Thirty pounds? Forty? Fifty? 

That night, Natasha came over, and they ordered Thai food and watched music videos from the eighties. Despite the conversation they'd had just that morning, as soon as they'd placed the order for dinner, Steve took out a six-pack of heavy beer. 

“It just goes so well with spicy food,” Steve said, cracking his second one open. “God, I do feel bloated, though, and we haven't even started eating.”

“You feel... bloated?” Nat said. Bucky wanted to shush her, but he also wanted to hear Steve's answer.

“Lately, yeah,” Steve said, tapping the bottom of his beer bottle into the side of his stomach. He was wearing an old blue sweater, very, very snug, the hem just barely coming down to his waistband, the sleeves tight around his shoulders and wide back. “Doesn't feel bad, exactly... Actually, it feels kind of good? I can't explain it. But yeah, I need to cut back on the beer, for sure.”

Denial, Natasha mouthed at Bucky. 

Two cartons of pad thai, a carton of white rice and a huge container of rich, coconutty beef curry later, Steve was sprawled out on the couch like a tubby angel from a Renaissance painting, sipping gingerly from his sixth beer. He'd unbuttoned his pants around his fourth plateful of food, and his belly had pushed the zipper the rest of the way down, so he looked truly, decadently round, the sides of his stomach starting to swell just like the rest, wide and gravid. His cheeks were pink and his thumb was tracing careful circles around his stretched belly-button, hand pausing every so often to cup the swell of belly and give it a few good pats. 

“Okay, gentleman,” Natasha said, collecting her purse. “Thank you for another lovely evening. See you tomorrow at the meeting.”

“Oh yeah,” Bucky groaned, remembering.

“I'll bring donuts,” she said, and winked at Steve, who managed to heave himself into a sitting position so he could accept her goodbye cheek-kiss. Once the door had closed behind her, however, he sank back into the cushions of the couch with a hard sigh. 

He and Bucky put on a movie, something slow and sentimental, and soon Steve began snoring gently, little puffs of air that warmed Bucky's heart. When he looked, Steve was cradling his tummy like a baby, one arm slung below its round, doughy curve, the other resting on top – a pose that turned Bucky's affection into lust in almost three seconds flat. It was warm and dim in the living room, and Bucky lost some time just gazing at Steve Rogers, not quite sleeping but not quite awake, either, until the movie ended and the credits rolled and the television went silent. 

Steve stirred a little, at that, and Bucky roused, too, watching Steve yawn. He was sleepy and pink and round and exquisite and Bucky wanted to touch him so badly he was nearly crawling out of his skin – so he did the next best thing. 

He stood and went into the kitchen and fixed Steve an absolutely enormous bowl of cookie dough ice cream, nearly an entire pint with fudge and peanut butter sauce and mounds of whipped cream, then he stuck a spoon in it and marched it back into the living room, where Steve was dozing lightly again, one hand now tucked up under his tight sweater. 

“Here, Stevie, dessert,” Bucky said, and Steve, pliant with sleepiness the way he always was, made a greedy little noise of thanks that went straight to Bucky's dick, and reached out his hands. 

He didn't even sit up all the way, just propped himself up a bit and began to eat the ice cream with slow, hypnotic movements, lounging against the pillows like a king. He held the bowl against his belly and hiccuped softly as he ate, and Bucky thought in a just a few months he'd be able to rest the bowl right on his stomach, a shelf of pure fat. He yawned, spooning bite after bite past those pretty pink lips, yawned and belched and stopped every so often to nudge his belly uncomfortably with the hand holding the spoon, a few droplets of ice cream flecking the overtaxed sweater. It had ridden up even more over the swell of his tummy and Steve kept tugging it down, only to send it creeping back up with the next hard, heaved breath. 

“Mmm,” Steve sighed, scraping the bottom of the bowl, and let out a wet burp. “Ugh. Ouch. Full.”

“You want a little more?” Bucky said. “There's plenty more, if you want it.”

“Yeah,” Steve yawned, holding the bowl out to him. “Just a little.”

Bucky filled the bowl again. He had to open a new pint of ice cream to do it, and then had to stop for a moment and lean up against the counter, give his hard dick some attention, though not the kind he dreamed of. Into this bowl he added two big, soft-baked chocolate chip cookies and a handful of walnuts. Then, ashamed of himself but so, so turned on, he added a banana, too.

Steve smiled when he saw it. “A banana split?”

“Know how much you love 'em,” Bucky said, settling in by Steve's side and watching breathlessly as Steve hiked himself a little higher on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position for his distended tummy. 

He ended up leaned way back, legs spread, stomach mounding out obscenely in front of him, a good two inches of swollen underbelly on display, big bowl held up and resting against his round pecs, so he barely had to move the spoon at all to get it to his mouth. His chin doubled subtly with every bite he took, cheeks rounding and hollowing as he slowly worked on the treat, sucking on his spoon and breathing hard out his nose, then taking a shallow, huffed breath through his mouth and breathing out around another huge bite. It sounded like tough going, and looked tough, too – Steve kept furrowing his brow in discomfort and letting out pained little grunts as he shifted position. But he kept eating. He'd put away nearly two pints of ice cream without questioning it, and his capacity stunned Bucky into a state of arousal he'd never before felt. He watched, dying, as Steve ate the cookies, crumbs falling carelessly onto his sweater as he munched, then watched, in agony, as Steve licked a long stripe of hot fudge off his thumb. 

“M'full,” Steve mumbled, mouth full of banana, eying the melting remains of his sundae. He spooned up another bite and let out a groan, half pain, half pleasure. “Belly hurts,” he admitted, taking another bite. “Feels... ugh, can't even move.” He took the last bite and dropped the bowl to the side with a clatter, letting it rest on the couch cushions. He looked utterly wanton and utterly round, his stomach so engorged that Bucky could see it jump with each beat of his heart. Steve bent forward a little, arm wrapping around himself, then slowly tipped over onto his side, pulling his legs up until he was curled up on the couch in the fetal position, hugging his bloated, heavy stomach and breathing in rough little huffs of air. “Gonna sleep here,” he said, eyes already closed. 

“Okay,” Bucky breathed. “You want a blanket?”

“Hot,” Steve said, shaking his head, and in another moment he was asleep.

Bucky took the empty bowl of ice cream to the sink, then took himself to his room, and replayed every second of the last hour, over and over until he was spent and gasping and shaking with pleasure, and regret, and a craving no ice cream could quench. 

:::

“Jesus,” Tony said the next day. “Cap okay? Looks like he swallowed a beach ball.”

Steve was still impressively distended from the previous night's ice cream binge, sitting in a miserable slouch at one end of the table and hiding little burps behind his hand. He was in his too-small jeans and too-small button-up, his stomach round and prominent and pulling his shirt so tight that his chunky hips and lower back were on full display. As Bucky watched, he dunked his third donut into his mocha latte and ate it in a few neat bites, one hand coming to rest on his belly. Actually, he was looking better as he ate, more comfortable, less pained. 

“He'll be all right,” Bucky said affectionately. 

“You remember I just had that suit tailored, right? It's got some wiggle room, but I'd like to hold off on any further exorbitantly expensive reinforcements for another year, at least.”

“How much wiggle room?” Bucky asked.

“Honestly?” Tony said. “He could probably gain another fifty pounds and be good. Not that I'm condoning it, but for the purposes of the suit, he'd be fine. Is he eating another donut? He is. Good god.”

:::

Steve's new t-shirts came, and Bucky mourned the loss of the old ones for about five minutes, until he saw Steve in the new ones. If anything, he looked even bigger – they draped over his gut and expanding hips and accentuated the growing swell of his belly as it began to bloat to the sides, not just the front. They bunched up beneath his button-ups, however, highlighting just how small the overshirts were getting.

“Gotta get him some new jeans again, I think,” Bucky said to Nat, watching him wander towards them in SHIELD's cafeteria, plate piled high with food. Bucky saw a few people glance at him, then away, then back, doing a double-take before they started grinning. 

“No,” Nat said. 

“No?” Bucky said. “But he's not comfortable, he's in pain.”

“You should make him admit it, then,” Nat said. “He needs to come to terms with his own body. Make him come to you and admit his pants are too small because he got too fat for them. He needs to say it out loud.”

“Say what?” Steve said, sliding into a chair. He surveyed his tray with satisfaction: a cheeseburger and onion rings and two pieces of pepperoni pizza. 

“Just talking about the food here,” Nat said, smiling. 

“It's not bad, for cafeteria fare,” Steve said, biting into his cheeseburger. He dabbed delicately at the mayonnaise that squirted out. “What'd you get, Buck?”

“Chicken sandwich,” Bucky said. “Want some fries?”

Steve accepted a handful, chewing happily between long gulps of Coke. He finished his cheeseburger and onion rings quickly and started in on the pizza without a pause, a simple slide-aside of the empty plate. He scooted closer to the table, and looked down, startled, when his belly brushed up against the edge. His buttons were gaping, and he poked through one of the gaps to his t-shirt with some consternation, then lay a hand on the side of his belly, gave it a doubtful pat-pat, and kept eating. Bucky and Natasha had both finished their lunch by then, so they chatted idly as Steve ate.

When his tray was empty, Steve glanced back towards the food area speculatively, working a thumb beneath his tight waistband and wincing. Bucky stood up and unasked, went to get him a tall glass of milk and a thick slice of chocolate cake, plus a dish of tapioca pudding with whipped cream. 

“Thanks, Bucky,” Steve said, arching his back, hand on his tummy, and picked up the dish of pudding. He ate it with slow enjoyment, then started in on the cake, gulping milk. He took a few big bites, then stopped, leaned back, and, frowning in concentration, he reached under his shirt and flicked open the button of his jeans. His only comment was a sheepish smile. 

Make him ask, Natasha mouthed to Bucky, and Bucky nodded. Mission accepted.

:::

Bucky's tactics, however, may not have been exactly what Natasha had in mind. 

The tighter his pants got, Bucky figured, the sooner Steve would have to admit they didn't fit. So, gently, he began urging Steve to eat even more, and more often, than his already impressive appetite demanded. And it was easiest to make Steve eat when he was sleepy.

“Morning,” Bucky chirped, presenting a half-awake Steve with a plate full of five eggs, potatoes, three pieces of toast, and bacon, everything covered in cheese and dripping with butter. He kept his glass of chocolate milk topped off, and when Steve had finished eating and was sitting back in his chair with pink cheeks, he set a head-sized cinnamon roll in front of him, topped with a very generous scoop of vanilla ice cream. Steve tugged uncomfortably at his drawstring to loosen his sweatpants, but he ate it without question. 

At night, Steve unbuttoned his pants after three platefuls of spaghetti and meatballs and nearly an entire baguette's worth of parmesan garlic bread, letting his belly push down the zipper and come to rest, quivering, nearly on his lap, belly button nosing up against the fabric of his new t-shirt. Bucky waited until he'd fallen asleep and then he stole away to the kitchen and cut a quarter of a piece of cheesecake, covered it in hot fudge and a thick heap of whipped cream, and brought it into Steve along with a beer.

Steve woke up, blinking sweetly and yawning as he took the cheesecake, eating with that slow concentration of fullness, stopping now and then to chug his beer and rumble up a pained-sounding burp, or to rub the tight upper bulge of his stuffed tummy. He sighed and pressed the heel of his hand into the side of his stomach, and when he was finished he handed the plate to Bucky and fell back asleep almost instantly, lips curved in a smile. 

“Sweatpants at 4pm?” Sam said a few days later, eyeing Steve's lunch-heavy belly, which was filling out his t-shirt in a wide, solid way. 

“Why not?” Steve said, flushing. “We're not doing anything today. Just hanging out.”

“If you say so,” Sam said, shaking his head. Steve sat down heavily onto the couch next to him, spreading his legs so he could lean forward and reach the game controller on the coffee table, and Bucky realized with a jolt that he had to spread his legs to make way for the dip of his belly, which had begun to round out onto his thighs when it wasn't constrained by his jeans. 

They had dinner plans with Tony that night, and Steve disappeared into his room to change and came out a while later, flushed and pained-looking in jeans and a black t-shirt. He hadn't buttoned up his overshirt; it hung loosely around him, framing his belly and concealing how chunky his hips were getting. He crossed his arms, and his shirt rode up enough for Bucky to see that Steve's belt was on his last notch, and his pants were almost certainly unbuttoned beneath the buckle. 

“I look okay?” he asked Bucky, not meeting his eyes.

“You look amazing,” Bucky said, and the honesty in his voice caused Steve's shoulders to relax. 

When they got home later that night, Steve took off his belt first thing, dropping it with a clunk onto the kitchen table and rubbing his underbelly with relief. Sitting, his tummy bowed out and settled down right onto the sharp edge of the buckle, and Bucky winced in sympathy at the red lines he saw when Steve's hand briefly lifted the hem of his shirt. 

Bucky passed Steve a beer, and Steve padded into the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a belch that made his belly jiggle slightly despite how firm it was from the food he'd packed into it earlier; a 12-ounce steak, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, three dinner rolls, and a slice of cheesecake. He unbuttoned and unzipped his pants immediately, tugging his t-shirt down over his fat tummy and trying to get comfortable beneath the weight of it. They turned on the TV, and it didn't take long before Steve had dozed off.

Bucky let him sleep for a while, then woke him with a plate stacked with the half-dozen donuts he hadn't finished for breakfast, and a big glass of milk.

Steve roused himself and sat up with a grunt, stomach settling roundly between the flaps of his unzipped jeans as he reached for a donut. He ate two sitting up, then leaned back to snuggle more deeply into the couch cushions, knuckling the side of his belly and gulping milk. “Heavy,” he murmured, still half-asleep, and took a third donut, chewing it with low-lidded eyes and a contented smile. He reached for his fourth and belched, wincing. “M'so full, Buck,” he said. 

“Yeah, Stevie.”

“Givin' myself a stomach ache,” he said. “Feels good, though.”

“You want another glass of milk?”

“Thanks,” Steve said, and when Bucky brought it back from the kitchen Steve pressed it to the hot curve of his swollen tummy and sighed. Then picked up his fifth donut, dunked it, and devoured it, still sighing in little gasps, his packed stomach pushing outwards with each ragged breath. He chugged the milk and held the sixth donut in his hand for a while, regarding it with sleepy, sated eyes, taking a bite here, a bite there, then finally pushing the last quarter into his mouth and chewing with slow determination. He swallowed with a little groan. 

“Uggh,” he said, kneading his stomach. “Think I gotta sleep out here again tonight.”

He was asleep in moments, and Bucky covered him with a blanket as he always did, and crept away to jerk off in his bed.

That night, however, Bucky woke to sounds coming from the kitchen, and crept down the hallway to find Steve leaning up against the counter with a pint of chocolate ice cream. He'd shucked his jeans and was in boxers, thick soft thighs on full display, round belly jiggling as he ate quickly and messily, shoving ice cream into his mouth with a blissful expression.

He was visibly, impressively, gloriously hard beneath his boxers. 

He didn't see Bucky standing in the doorway, too intent on his midnight snack. He scraped the ice cream container clean and dropped it into the trashcan with with a hard sigh, and Bucky stole away before he was noticed, head spinning, dick throbbing.

:::

Four nights later, they were supposed to go to a movie with Sam. It'd been a rainy, cozy few days, and Steve hadn't changed out of his sweatpants at all, though they, too, had grown quite snug, Steve's chunky butt straining the seat, drawstring waist slung low under the pooch of his round tummy. He and Bucky hadn't left the apartment once in three whole days, preferring to slouch around the living room listening to music, watching TV and chatting, laughing, enjoying one another's company; and eating. 

Steve, for all he ate, wasn't usually much of a snacker; he seemed to like the ritual of three big meals (plus dessert) a day, and aside from a bag of chips or a Cupcake Bar now and then he didn't eat too much outside of normal mealtimes – but something about the absence of responsibility and the snug apartment surrounded by the sound of steady rain had seemed to unleash the nibbler in him, and he'd been eating steadily, mindlessly. No sooner had the breakfast dishes been cleared than Steve was peeling a banana or opening a pack of cookies, folding bread around thick pats of butter, piling cheese onto Ritz crackers. After a big, greasy lunch delivered from the sub shop around the corner, Steve slouched on the couch with a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of nacho cheese, standing only to root around in the cupboards for a Snicker's bar or a box of gingersnaps. After his customary enormous dinner, he snacked his way all the way to bedtime, working through his standard six-pack of dark beer and nibbling on string cheese or Cheez its or stacks of toast with butter and sugar.

Then he'd drift off on the couch, carried to sleep on a tide of fullness, lazily palming his painfully stuffed stomach, which by the end of the day was tight and swollen and incredibly round. He'd nap for a while, until Bucky woke him with more food, always something that appealed to his sweet tooth; cake, ice cream, brownies. Steve woke up blearily but eagerly, already accustomed to the late-night treats, and would sometimes accept his dessert without hardly changing position – he'd grunt himself a little higher on the cushions, try and sling his sweatpants even lower under his bloated gut, arch his back and adjust his shirt with a little grimace of discomfort before tucking in. “Mmm,” he'd puff, finishing off a brownie the size of his softening face, “full, really getting full,” but never once did he leave anything unfinished, not even when he was panting with effort and clutching his fat tummy with the hand not shoveling cake into his mouth. “Ugh,” he grunted, “god, wow,” belching and wincing and stroking the sides of his stomach as if it were a cat, slow and comforting across the drumlike dome of it. 

Bucky swore Steve gained five pounds in just those three days. It was only five pounds, but suddenly he had a little roll that creased his back, and his thick hips were widening out to meet his stomach, a spare tire that made him look bloated from the front as well as the side. Before, his back had simply seemed broader, from behind: now, Bucky could see the swollen sides of his tummy rounding out, too, and the cushion of pudge that padded his back before jutting out into the fat curve of his perfect ass. His chin had a little pocket of fat that was there even when he wasn't bending his head, and pert, pudgy pecs sat on his belly when he was sitting down.

The night of the movie, Steve went reluctantly into his room to put on “real, human clothes,” and Bucky went to the kitchen to fix him a pre-movie snack, though he'd had a grilled cheese sandwich not an hour ago. He was just pulling an apple pie out of the oven, steaming and fragrant, when Steve appeared in the doorway. He was in a t-shirt and jeans, and it took Bucky a moment to realize that his jeans were unzipped, stomach pushing round and unconstrained between the flaps. 

“I can't zip them,” Steve said without preamble. His face was unreadable.

“Oh?” Bucky said.

“Can't even get them closed,” Steve said, demonstrating, tugging on the flaps and trying to suck in his stomach, which gurgled indignantly and barely went in at all. He gave up and thumped down into a chair, then, as Bucky watched in exquisite agony, Steve put both hands on either side of his belly and gave it a hard shake. Despite everything he'd already eaten that day, it jiggled like firm jello beneath his hands. 

“I know I've put on some weight,” Steve said. “But I didn't realize... I didn't realize quite how much. These pants are 34s.” This last accusatorily.

“Yeah,” Bucky said. 

“And they don't zip. At all.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. He was careful to let neither judgment nor lust show on his face, matching Steve's hard-to-read expression. 

“I mean, I'm used to feeling big,” Steve said. “I always feel big. But lately I've felt... bigger. I've gotten bigger.” He glanced up at Bucky.

“Yeah,” Bucky said – then, knowing he needed to say more, “How do you feel about it?” Finally all that government-mandated therapy was paying off. 

“Um,” Steve said, and poked his tummy almost with awe. “I don't know. I guess I feel okay about it?” He looked up, as if gauging to see whether this was the right response.

“Good,” Bucky said, smiling, “Good. You should feel okay about it. I mean, you should feel however the hell you want to feel about it.”

Steve leaned back, touching his stomach with curious fingers, prodding the soft lower curve where it was fattest, pooching out between his unzipped pants. “But I'm getting kind of a gut,” he said. 

Bucky didn't point out that he already had a gut. He waited, then turned to the counter to cut Steve an enormous wedge of pie. 

“I know I eat a lot,” Steve said. “I know that. But I don't really see myself going on a diet anytime soon. That's not really something I want to do.”

“Then don't,” said Bucky. He smothered the pie in ice cream and set it down in front of his friend. 

“I noticed my pants were tight,” Steve said, sniffing the pie appreciatively before taking a huge bite. “My clothes are all kind of uncomfortable, to tell the truth.” He took another bite, spoke around it. “But what I noticed most was... how I felt. Or that I felt anything at all. Usually I don't think much about my body, what it looks like, how I move it, how it feels... but when I'm full it's like I can really feel myself, can feel my body working.” He paused, chewing, swallowed. “I feel really grounded. Is that crazy?”

“No,” Bucky said. “Though there are other ways to, um, to be present in your body.” He was blushing, he knew. “Nat gave me some tips, when I was, when I got back. Stretching. Brushing my hair.” He stopped, embarrassed. 

Steve nodded seriously, scraping up another big bite of pie and ice cream, then sat back for a moment, thoughtful. He patted his tummy, though not with his usual absentminded carelessness – this was slow, purposeful. He thumped a fist into the side of his belly and roused up a low belch, then stroked it gently as he spooned the last bite of ice cream drenched pie into his mouth. 

Bucky took his empty plate and put another piece of pie on it, bigger this time, more ice cream. Poured him a glass of milk. Sat back down.

“I want to eat that,” Steve said. 

“So eat it,” Bucky said.

Slowly, hesitantly, Steve did. He was sweetly shy about it, lowered lashes shadowing his cheek, chin ducked down into the softness beneath his jaw, one hand keeping up a deliberate rhythm on the side of his swelling stomach, pat-pat-pat as he ate. Every so often Bucky heard his belly give a little gurgle, a jump as he burped softly. 

“Mmm,” Steve grunted, finishing his milk, and licked up the last creamy chunk of pie. He thumbed his belly-button, which was riding high and visible beneath the fabric of his newish t-shirt, then he scratched his lower belly where it was settled out of his pants. It was resting on his thighs now, Bucky saw with some excitement, just an inch or so. “I'm getting full.”

“You look full,” Bucky dared to say.

“Guess I probably do,” Steve said. He sucked in some air, sighed it out, nudged the side of his belly with the heel of his hand. “Jeez.”

“You look good,” Bucky heard himself say.

“Yeah?” Steve said, mouth quirked up like he thought Bucky was joking.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, head spinning with the honesty of it, and he got up, took Steve's plate out from under his watchful gaze, and loaded a third slice of pie on there. More than half the pie was gone now. He spooned ice cream, poured milk, set it down. He didn't know how else to say what he wanted to say.

“I'm putting on weight, Buck,” Steve said, rubbing his belly. 

“I know.”

Steve sighed heavily, and reached down to adjust his waistband, forgetting it was already unbuttoned and unzipped. His fingers met belly, and he tried to tug up his too-tight boxers, instead, then smoothed his t-shirt down over the dome of his gut and began to eat. He sipped his milk, slow, watched Bucky from under lowered lashes as he chewed. He ate efficiently, putting another bite into his mouth as soon as he'd swallowed the previous one, washing it down with milk and allowing himself a few thick burps. Neither of them spoke as Steve ate, his cheeks pinkening in that way Bucky loved, his breath coming steady and then then a little strained. 

When he was done, he pushed his plate forward and leaned back, resting his hands lightly on his thick thighs, breathing in and out, belly pushing up and down with each breath. He looked at his empty plate. Looked at Bucky. Licked his lips, something bright in his eyes. Bucky went back to the pie and cut up his fourth piece. Only about a fourth was left, and Bucky had to open a new pint of ice cream for this round. He piled it on high, nearly covering the pastry, and set it in front of Steve with hands that were almost shaking. 

Steve tugged it towards himself and looked at it for a moment. Then he spread his legs and leaned forward, cupping the heavy curve of his belly as he began to eat, grunting a little as he swallowed each difficult bite. “Whoo,” he said, cheeks red. “Feel like I'm gonna pop.” He picked up the plate and leaned back in his chair with it, brought it closer to his mouth, arching his back as he did so to stretch out his poor belly. His t-shirt rucked gently around the upper curve of his tummy, and he tugged it down. “Ugh,” Steve panted, and finished the piece in one last enormous bite. He set the plate back down on the table with a clatter, and closed his eyes, fingers pressing hard into his belly, which was taut and round and visibly bloated, firm where it had been soft before his meal. 

“There's only one piece left,” Bucky said. He barely recognized his own voice, it was so hoarse with desire. 

“Kay,” wheezed Steve, eyes shut in concentration, and Bucky went back to the counter with Steve's empty plate. Instead of placing the last piece on it, he heaped ice cream directly onto the pie and brought over the whole pie tin, setting it in front of Steve and sitting back down in his own chair. Steve sucked in a strained breath and scooted his chair closer to the table, belly kissing the edge. He planted both elbows on the table and loaded up an enormous bite, stared at it, and swallowed it down. He took two more bites this way, then leaned back to press on his tummy, stroking it with one hand and pressing the heel of his other hand into its broad side. He was sweating lightly, blond hair spiked with it at his temples, and his cheeks were rosy and round. “Full,” he said, “so full.”

Then, meeting Bucky's eyes, he said in a voice full of fear and hope, “Buck, would you...?”

Bucky understood instantly. He scooted his chair to Steve's side and picked up the pie tin. His fingers were trembling as he loaded up a bite, but they held steady as he lowered it carefully to Steve's waiting lips, feeling the tug as they clasped around the fork as powerfully as if they were closing around his cock. Steve gripped his belly and titled his head back, totally trusting, as Bucky fed him another bite. Bucky's head was a whirlwind, his mind tangled up in panic and joy and lust and everything in between. This, he knew, was a point of no return, for both of them. This was the tipping point, and god, god, he wanted to get it right. 

“Good,” he found himself saying, “good, Stevie. Just a few more bites.”

Steve moaned around the fork, and Bucky had to make an effort not to double over with pure desire. “Full,” Steve puffed, like a mantra, “so full, so full.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed.

“Am I gettin fat, Buck?” Steve wanted to know. He was tracing the engorged dome of his belly, circling it with a flat palm. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice gravelly and low. 

“Feel fat, all of a sudden,” Steve said. “Feel big. Bent to put my jeans on and could feel my belly in the way. S'heavy. Hurts.”

“It hurts?” Bucky said, pausing with the fork an inch from Steve's lips, and Steve craned his neck like a baby bird, blindly seeking the pie. Bucky brought it to his mouth, tucked it gently inside. 

“Hurts good,” Steve said, mouth full, “like being stretched-out from the inside, worked open, you know, when you're getting ready for...” He swallowed, face going even pinker. If Bucky had ever wondered about Steve's sexual history, one pertinent question was answered, at least, and he palmed the bulge of his hard cock in his own, well-fitting jeans. 

“One more bite,” Bucky murmured, and Steve took it like a champ, chewing and swallowing and sighing. He was petting his tummy a little frantically, rough up-and-down sweeps of his hand that tugged his t-shirt tantalizingly up and down, and Bucky, braver than he'd ever been, even through war and torture and more war, reached out and grabbed his wrists. Steve stilled almost instantly, and Bucky moved Steve's hands so they were hanging by his sides, loose, fingers curled, stomach straining out and in with his shallow breathing. Slowly, slowly, watching Steve the whole time to make sure it was all right, Bucky pushed Steve's t-shirt up so it was gathered below his pecs, tucked beneath their fat, juicy roundness, his nipples hardening visibly as Bucky's hand brushed by. 

There was his belly, unwrapped like the most beautiful gift in the world, and for a moment Bucky just let himself stare. 

Steve was all peaches and cream, white skin with soft golden hair leading from his chest to his groin, his belly amazingly round and firm like a fat ball, lower belly ever-so-slightly plumper than the upper belly, but the upper belly more swollen with food, harder even to the naked eye. It quivered with Steve's painful breathing. His hips were pudgy and sloped over the opened waist of his pants, and he had a roll right at his waist that followed around his back. His belly button was wide and stretched-looking, and as Bucky watched, Steve belched and the whole gorgeous expanse contracted and vibrated, soft layer of fat jiggling even over the hard stuffed glut of his nonexistent abs. 

Bucky lay his hands on Steve like a man seeing god. Steve moaned at the first touch of Bucky's fingers, flesh and metal, and seemed to push his belly out even further, craving contact. Bucky kneaded every inch of that gut, pressing firm fingers into the bloated upper portion, petting the round push of Steve's sides, fondling the soft fat that rested lightly on Steve's lap.

“Let's get you out of these tight pants,” he rasped, and Steve lifted his hips so Bucky could peel him slowly out of his jeans, grunting at the movement, belly shaking. His boxers were horribly tight, and Bucky shook his head at the way they bit red marks into the soft skin below Steve's gut. He ran his hands up Steve's pretty ankles and muscular calves and thick thighs, then helped Steve out of his boxers, too, watching the way his fatter ass spread across the seat of the chair, mounding up the fat of his lower back so the roll at his waist was even more pronounced. 

“Shirt,” Bucky said, and helped Steve take his shirt all the way off, so he was sitting, stark naked in all his round pink glory, while Bucky knelt before him, fully clothed and breathing hard. His arms were tree trunks, biceps huge with muscle and fat, and his chest was full and firm like young breasts, nipples pink and at-attention, two perfect handfuls that Bucky couldn't help but reach out and cup, thumb swiping over those gumdrop nipples. Steve moaned, and Bucky knelt up to take one of those tits in his mouth, finally, biting down gently into the meat of it and lathing his tongue over Steve's nipples. Steve cried out, and Bucky shushed him with his mouth. 

Their first kiss tasted like apple pie. It started out hot and urgent but suddenly grew sweet, Steve sighing under him as Bucky leaned into that broad belly, their mouths fitting together like cream and sugar, like butter and bread. They kissed for a while, Steve still short of breath, panting into Bucky's mouth until the kiss went right back from sweet to sinful. 

Bucky kissed his neck, sucking mouthfuls of soft skin into his jaw, nipping at the pudge below his chin before trailing his mouth down to Steve's belly, kissing the hot, tight swell of it, feeling it gurgle and rumble beneath his lips, then went lower, nosing at the soft underbelly and ignoring Steve's hard, leaking cock where it bumped up against his gut. He sucked bruises into Steve's thighs as Steve writhed and moaned, and then, finally, he licked a stripe right up the underside of Steve's cock and swallowed him down. 

It was the hottest thing that had ever happened to him, and he was fully-clothed and kneeling on a hard linoleum floor. 

Steve was breathing heavily, gasping Bucky's name over and over, and Bucky closed his eyes and worked Steve's dick with a worship he had never felt in church, everything narrowed down to this moment, to the sweet smell of Steve's skin and the press of his swollen gut into Bucky's forehead and nose as he bobbed up and down. 

Steve came with a roar, a shout of pure exaltation, and Bucky held him by the hips and drank him down drop by drop, wrung him dry until Steve was shaking and gasping on the chair above him. 

Bucky's own cock was harder than he would've thought possible, but he didn't mind. He stroked a soothing hand up Steve's quivering belly, waiting for him to calm, to come down. 

“God,” Steve said, “oh my god, Buck, I never – that was --”

“Wanna go steady?” Bucky said, and Steve laughed breathlessly, wincing as he did so, belly still too full for comfort.

“Yes,” Steve said, “Yeah, please, please let's go steady.”

Bucky didn't know the world held so much happiness for him. Suddenly overwhelmed, he dropped his head onto Steve's knee, and Steve stroked a hand through his hair, lovingly. “C'mere,” Steve said, and pulled him up, kissing him hard before reaching to unbutton his pants. He was still seated, like a fat god, and once Bucky's clothes were off, Steve guided him down to straddle his lap, cock hard between them, rubbing up against the push of Steve's belly. They kissed, Bucky rutting up against him until he couldn't take it any more, and then suddenly they were on the kitchen floor, Bucky's legs wrapped around Steve's thick waist, his cock grinding a hard rhythm into Steve's belly, Steve egging him on with each thrust until Bucky came all over his gorgeous, jiggling gut. 

He collapsed onto the floor, stars in his eyes, trumpets in his ears.

They lay like that for a while, and then Steve said, “I guess I should text Sam and tell him we're not gonna make this movie.”

“Guess so,” Bucky said.

“Pizza?” said Steve, and Bucky rolled over to kiss the grin right off his perfect pudgy face. 

:::

“Seventy eight,” Tony said in Bucky's ear. It was another stupid party, and Bucky was forced to watch from across the room as Steve sat on the couch surrounded by eager strangers, diplomats and politicians and just plain fans. Just a month or so after they'd declared their love for one another in a haze of apple pie, Steve looked happy and comfortable in his new clothes: dark-wash jeans slung low under his belly, a grey cashmere sweater that clung to his round stomach and didn't hide the fact that it had inched forward even further over his lap. He was sitting with his legs spread, belly dipping slightly as he leaned forward to hear something someone had said, then rounding up as he leaned back, laughing, drinking a beer and then popping a mini quiche into his mouth.

“Sorry?” Bucky said, tearing his eyes away from Steve.

“Seventy eight pounds,” Tony said. “That's how much your boy's packed on.”

Bucky's face was instantly red, his dick instantly perking up to attention. “What?” he said.

“Jarvis monitors vitals,” Tony said, taking a smug sip of his cranberry-soda. “Just thought you might want to know. Seventy eight pounds. He's sitting pretty at a little under 300. Where it all went, I simply couldn't tell you.” He patted his flat stomach meaningfully. “He must have a hollow leg. Seriously, Barnes, did you see him in that suit yesterday?”

“Sure did.”

“Yeah, 'course you did, you sick monkey.” Tony shook his head, grinning. “The media had a field day, did you see those headlines? Captain Beefcake, they're calling him. He's only got about another twenty-five pounds before I have to have it taken out again, you tell him that.”

In his suit, Steve looked like a boulder, immovable and strong – if boulders had bellies that couldn't be hidden by all the elastic technology in the world, that is. “I'll let him know,” Bucky said. 

“And god forgive me for telling you this, but the caterers just put out a chocolate ganache that's to die for. What you do with that information is up to you.”

What Bucky did, of course, was slide two slices onto the same plate, add a couple strawberries, and bring it to his boyfriend, who as luck would have it, was just finishing his plate of appetizers. 

“Hey,” Steve said, grinning foolishly, handing Bucky his empty plate and swapping it out for the cake. “Oooh. Yum.”

Bucky deposited the empty plate on the tray of a passing waiter, and snagged a couple beers, handing one down to Steve. He perched next to him on the arm of the couch, content to sit guard while Steve ate and listened to a tedious gentleman explain the newest advances in toothbrush science. Steve was already a few plates deep, and he was focused more on the cake than the conversation, nodding every now and again to feign attention, shifting his weight as the discomfort of fullness set in. When he finished the two slices of ganache, Bucky had another at the ready, and a fresh beer. Steve smiled his thanks, scooting backwards on the couch so he could lean forward and give his belly some space to settle between his legs, elbows on his knees as he worked on the rich cake. The boring man seemed to take this as incentive to begin extolling the virtues of sulfate-free toothpaste, and Bucky settled a hand on the back of Steve's thick neck and stared until the man grew pale and excused himself. Bucky swung into his vacated seat, and Steve leaned back until their shoulders were touching. He had chocolate in the corner of his mouth, and Bucky swiped it away with his thumb, then offered Steve the thumb to lick clean. They didn't go in for lots of PDA, but they didn't bother to hide the truth of their relationship, either, and the media was eating it up. There was the flash of a camera bulb, and Steve smiled ruefully. 

“Bet that'll cause a stir tomorrow.”

“Bet it's a cute picture.”

“I don't know,” Steve said, jostling his full belly. “Don't you think I look kinda fat?”

“Yep,” Bucky said in satisfaction. It was true. Steve looked pudgy and round all over. His jawline was still movie-star square but softened, and the pocket of fat beneath his chin had only deepened, evident now even when he was staring straight ahead. “You wanna know how much weight you've gained?”

“I don't know,” Steve said, guiding the last bite of cake to his lips. “Do I?”

“Seventy-eight pounds,” Bucky said. 

Steve swallowed, said nothing. Chugged the rest of his beer and flagged down a passing waiter for another one, swallowed half of it in a few gulps and let out a rumbling belch. Arched his back a little, sighed. Laid a careful hand across his upper belly, where it was firm and swollen with food, then trailed his palm down to pat the softer curve where it was sitting on his lap. “I feel it,” he said, finally.

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said. He'd been practicing describing how his body felt, staying attuned to it, alert, appreciative, engaged. Sex helped, he admitted. Sex and food. “Feel pretty full right now, obviously. Skin's pretty tight.” He ran his nails across the stretched sides. “Hurts right here,” he knuckled his upper belly, “but in that good way, like pressure. Down here, I can feel it on my thighs, heavy; presses on my, on my, you know. It's been getting in my way; can't lean over the same way anymore, have to kind of squat. And I think it's getting wider? Kinda pushes my arms out, see?” He gulped the rest of his beer. “Beer gets me even tighter,” he said. “Fills me up.”

“Then let's get you another one,” Bucky said. “Maybe some more cake while I'm at it.”

“Maybe,” Steve agreed, pink faced, draping his hand over his tummy. He leaned back, scooted forward, trying to get comfortable. When Bucky returned with the beer and the cake, Natasha had taken his place, and Steve was holding a plate of bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with blue cheese, his lips slick from bacon grease.

“Did I take your seat?” Nat said, but didn't move to get up, and Bucky sat back down on the arm of the couch. He held the cake, ready whenever Steve wanted it, and Steve took the beer from him and downed a few grateful sips. 

“These are great,” Steve said, motioning to the dates. “Thanks Nat. Hic. Ouch. Probably shouldn't have any more. Hic. Getting pretty full, here.” He popped another in his mouth, sipped his beer. “Mmm.” Ate another date; two, three, seven. “Hic. Oof. Mmm.” He handed Bucky his empty plate and empty beer bottle and nudged his upper belly, brow pinched in pain. Bucky passed him the cake. “I'm stuffed,” Steve said, rocking back, letting his stomach round out heavily in front of him. He took a bite of cake, let out a tortured-sounding burp. “Shouldn't be eating this much cake,” he said to Nat. “It's my fourth piece. Hic. Ugh, I'm full, wow.”

“Enjoy it,” Nat said, patting him on the leg and winking at Bucky. “You can have your seat back now.”

Bucky sank next to Steve again, feeling the warmth coming off his body. He was breathing slow and shallow; he hadn't been exaggerating his fullness. “Can't believe I gained almost eighty pounds,” Steve said quietly. He shoveled in his last bite of cake and gave the empty plate to Bucky to set on the ground at their feet. He leaned back, testing the give of his belly with careful fingers. It was as taut as a water balloon. “Hey Buck,” he said.

“Hey, Stevie.”

“Remember how you said if I gained a hundred pounds, you'd throw me a party?”

Bucky smiled slowly. “I do seem to recall saying something like that.” Wasn't quite the context, but hey. 

“That offer still stand?”

“Sure does, pal.”

“Let's go home,” Steve said, putting both hands on his knees, readying himself to push into a stand. “We've got all that whipped cream to take care of.”

That night, Steve lay bloated and prone in his bed while Bucky carefully emptied three canisters of whipped cream into his waiting mouth. They were both groaning by the time it was done, Steve with the pain of fullness and Bucky with how turned-on he was. Bucky got Steve off with careful consideration, and Steve rolled onto his side so he could wrap his arms around his fat, throbbing belly while Bucky rutted up between his chubby thighs, cock jostling his balls with each thrust, until Bucky had come and Steve was hard again and they could start all over. 

:::

“Barnes,” Sam said. “Tell me something. When'd Steve get that shirt?”

Bucky looked at the shirt in question, a long-sleeved blue t-shirt that brought out his eyes. “Couple weeks ago? Month, tops.”

“Was it always that tight?”

Bucky looked again. They were at another barbecue on Clint's roof, and Steve was sitting in a beach chair by the grill, legs spread, belly heavy in his lap as he ate a plate of ribs Bucky had brought him. His belly button was visible through the stretched cloth, and the shirt was bunching and strained around his chest and arms. He looked too big for the low chair, sides pushed up against the arms, tummy a big mound he could barely lean over to get the beer he'd set at his feet. 

“Nope,” Bucky said. “Was pretty loose at first.”

“He sure can eat.”

“Yup.” Bucky smiled as Steve finished the ribs and set his plate down by his side, stomach heaving as he licked his fingers clean, breathing hard. 

“I'd like to see him get out of that chair, though.” Sam tilted his head, then shouted, “Hey, Rogers!”

Steve looked up, and Bucky laughed, shaking his head at Sam in mock-disapproval. 

“C'mere,” Sam hollered, gesturing. Steve frowned, then returned the gesture – no you come HERE. Sam shook his head, gestured again, emphatically. Steve sighed, then lowered his hands to the arms of the beach chair and pushed up, big belly leading the way, shirt riding up as he puffed, red-faced, to his feet, one hand on his full stomach to steady himself. He bent his knees, belly dipping low as he picked up his beer, then straightened and ambled over, slow, curious.

“What's up?” Steve said.

“Got some barbecue sauce right here,” Sam said, gesturing, and Steve scowled, swiping at his cheek. 

“Is that it?” he said. This close, Bucky could hear the wheeze in his voice. A plate of ribs, two cheeseburgers, two hot dogs and a whole mess of dips and chips will do that to a man, Bucky thought proudly. 

“Here,” Bucky said, passing him his just-opened beer. Steve softened, took a sip. 

“Looks like someone's enjoying the spread,” Sam said, reaching out to pat Steve on the side of his belly. 

“Yeah,” Steve said, arching his back and hooking a thumb into his waistband and tugging down, trying to get it situated better beneath the wide curve of his underbelly, which stuck out proud and firm like a woman six months gone. Bucky's heart went pitter-patter. God, he was gaining quickly, if those pants were already tight. “Thinking about dessert,” Steve said. “You called me all the way over here, least you could do is go get me some of that strawberry shortcake.”

“You got it, Cap,” Sam said, saluting, and Steve nudged his belly gently into Bucky's side until Bucky's metal arm came up and draped around his shoulders. 

“Feelin big,” Steve murmured. “I can feel my ass bounce when I walk.”

“Tease,” Bucky said, nuzzling the soft skin of his chubby jaw. 

“Belly's getting heavy,” Steve said. “Wonder what it'd feel like if I didn't have the super-muscle, you know? Bet my back would hurt.”

“I'm glad it doesn't.”

“Me too. I can feel it, though. Throws me off balance sometimes. Been training a little extra to figure it out, but I keep putting on weight faster than I can learn. Glad things've been so slow, lately.”

Sam came over with an entire paper plate covered in strawberry shortcake, plus three scoops of vanilla ice cream and a brownie. The plate was so heavy he had to carry it with two hands, sagging in the middle like a hammock. Bucky took it from him and held it out to Steve.

“Thanks,” Steve said to Bucky, digging his plastic fork in, like Bucky was his own personal table. 

“Oh, you thank the guy who holds your plate, but not the guy who brings it to you?” Sam said. “I see how it is.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve said, dimpling. He took another bite. Bucky liked the feeling of the fork through the paper plate, the pressure as Steve pressed down, trying to get as much on his fork as possible. He couldn't hand-feed Steve in public, but this was second-best. “I'm gonna need to sit down, soon,” Steve said, picking up the brownie and taking a huge, messy bite. “Getting pretty full.”

“Getting full?” Sam said. “I think you're there already.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, licking ice cream from his fork. He burped politely, pausing to press a hand soothingly into his stomach. “Ugh. Buck, let's sit down.”

“No,” Bucky said.

“That's my cue to leave you two to... whatever it is you're doing,” Sam said, and saluted again.

“Belly's real heavy,” Steve said, settling a fist beneath it, pushing up from the bottom to take some weight off. “Oof. Wow. I'm full.” He took another big bite. He loved talking about how full he was as he shoveled more food in, and Bucky loved hearing about it. “Feel like my skin's too small for my body. Hurrp. Mmm. Damn. I am seriously getting fat. Can feel myself getting bigger every day.” He finished the brownie. The strawberry shortcake was almost gone, too, swimming in a lake of melting ice cream. “My chest jiggles when I walk, like a dame. Feels good, Bucky.”

“Looks good,” Bucky said. 

“All right,” Steve said, breathing hard. He dropped the plastic fork onto the empty plate. “All right, lemme sit down.”

Bucky led them to a picnic bench, and Steve sat so heavily Bucky was worried for a second the whole table might tip over, but it didn't. Steve's breath was coming in rasping puffs, belly straining out like a dog on a leash. He was getting so wide, tummy bulging at the sides like an overfilled sandbag, and he patted himself carefully. 

“Ugh, that's sore,” he said, arching his back. His shirt was, undeniably, getting too tight already. “I need a nap, Bucky.”

“Let's get you home,” Bucky said. 

Steve dozed off in the car back to the Tower, and leaned sleepily into Bucky's side on the elevator up. He plodded into their living room, kicking off his shoes as he went, and collapsed onto the couch, putting his feet up. His belly rounded out on his lap, and he had to grip it with one hand and hold it up so he could undo his jeans button with the other hand.

“Those getting tight already?” Bucky said.

“Sure are,” Steve said. He snuggled back into the couch cushions, both arms wrapped around his tummy, holding it in. “Mmm. Tired.”

It was still early, barely past seven, so Bucky let him sleep a few hours. He ran out to the local bakery and woke Steve up around nine, a box of cheesecake on his lap. Steve blinked away, already looking around for what Bucky might be about to feed him, and when he saw the cheesecake he smiled. “Love that stuff,” he said.

“I know,” said Bucky, handing him the box and a fork, and Steve dug right in, no ceremony. He was still so bloated from dinner that he had to stop often to try and rustle up a burp, pushing on his belly and groaning a little through thick white mouthfuls of creamy cake. He ate about a fourth of it before he had to stop, so full he was moaning a little bit on every exhale, and Bucky rubbed his belly for a while until he began to doze off again. After a half hour nap, Bucky woke him up again, and Steve sleepily began to eat once more. 

“Feel so fat,” Steve said, rocking from side to side, heavy hips working their way over the waistband of his jeans, spilling out over the edges. He wrapped an arm around his belly, hefted it off his lap and let it drop heavily back down. “Ugh, I'm hot, phew.”

“Here,” Bucky said, taking the cheesecake – almost half gone. “Get those pants off and take care of yourself while I feed you.”

Steve worked his hips free from his pants and boxers, but when he tried to lean over the stuffed dome of his gut to push them past his knees he stopped, wincing, and let them stay bunched up on his legs. He started to stroke himself slowly, and Bucky pushed a bite of cheesecake past his lips. He stroked faster and faster as Bucky pressed more cake into him, his belly bouncing with each movement of his fist, head jerking back so Bucky kept accidentally smearing cheesecake on his chin as he tried to guide the fork. Steve was panting heavily, grunting with each stroke, “Uh uh uh,” and the cheesecake was more than ¾ gone when he shuddered, arched his back, and came with a long, low groan. He collapsed bonelessly, and Bucky shoved another bite of cheesecake into his mouth. Steve chewed mechanically, then said, “No more. No more, I'm gonna bust.”

Bucky put down the box. Steve really did look like he might bust, his tummy so swollen it was almost pulsing to the touch, hot and tight and jumping with the fast gasps of Steve's struggling lungs. Bucky pressed a kiss to Steve's open mouth, and Steve returned it eagerly, but broke away to suck in air.

“Can hardly breathe,” Steve said. “Hoo boy.” He was burping constantly, little, shallow things that burst like bubbles, and he was rubbing his tummy with cum-splattered hands, mindless of his shirt. He looked so messy and destroyed that Bucky was having trouble breathing, himself. “God,” Steve groaned, “God, look how round I am. Ugh, I gotta lie down, Buck.”

He tipped over onto his side, and Bucky pulled his feet up onto the couch, took off his jeans and helped him pull his boxers back up. Steve's gut hung off the edge a little, now, especially curled the way he was, arms wrapped tight around his hugely bloated belly, which lay beside him like a faithful pet. Bucky squeezed a handful of Steve's fat ass, then stroked his flank soothingly. 

“Gettin too big for this couch,” Steve murmured. “Gettin too big for everything. My pants, my shirts, my Cap suit...”

“Not too big for me,” Bucky said, and Steve turned to smile at him. 

“No,” Steve said.

:::

“Remind me again why you're having a party?” Tony said. “At my expense? When I just shelled out over seven thousand dollars so Captain Beefcake's fat ass could squeeze into his uniform for another fifty pounds?”

“Never had a party here before,” Bucky said. “Bout time.”

“Steve looks comfortable,” Clint smirked. Bucky followed his gaze to where Steve was sitting in an armchair drinking a beer. To the outward eye, he probably did look comfortable, slouched forward with his legs spread, fat belly dipping between his thighs and rounding up beneath his too-short t-shirt. A fat undercurve of tummy pooled pudgily in the space left by his thighs. He was in sweatpants, to his own chagrin; he hadn't been able to button his jeans for three days, and the new ones hadn't come yet. Bucky knew he wasn't comfortable, however; he could read the redness in his cheeks, the way he kept setting a hand on the upper shelf of his belly and frowning. He was stuffed. 

“Never thought we'd see a fat Captain America,” Clint said.

“He's not fat,” Bucky said, just to keep the conversation going. 

“Are you kidding?” Tony said. “He's gained over a hundred pounds.”

“Over?” Bucky said. “I thought you said it was a hundred exactly.”

“That was last week,” Tony said. “One oh three as of this morning.”

“Forget about his weight,” Clint said. “Look at that gut. Watching him fight is like watching a concrete ball beat the shit out of everything in its path. I've never seen anyone pork up like that. I mean, I guess it makes sense, he's got the appetite of a gorilla.”

“Do gorillas like cookies?” Tony said, watching Steve accept a stack of peanut butter cookies from Natasha. 

“That one does,” Clint said. 

Steve pressed on the side of his tummy, rolling his knuckles across his belly button. He pushed a cookie into his mouth, crumbs falling onto his gut, and when he bent his head to brush them off, his double chin doubled even further. He cocked his head, considering, and, glancing from side to side, carefully placed the remaining stack of cookies on his stomach. They sat there, perfectly stable on the jut of his fat gut, even as he hiccuped delightedly, belly wobbling beneath them. 

“Now that's a super-power,” Clint commented. 

Bucky left them, and went to sit on the arm of Steve's chair. Steve wrapped an arm around his waist, Bucky's hip pressed against the place Steve's fat side nudged up against the chair. Not caring who was watching, Bucky plucked a cookie from the stack on Steve's belly and pressed it into his wide pink mouth. 

“Mmmf,” Steve protested, realizing he was being fed an entire cookie. He chewed, swallowed, raised one eyebrow. Bucky fed him another cookie, and Steve let him do it, barely choking it down in time for Bucky to jam another cookie down his gullet. The five cookies disappeared this way, and Steve heaved an enormous sigh when they were gone, face pinker than ever. Bucky reached down and brushed the crumbs from the warm, firm stomach. 

“Happy one hundred, honey,” Bucky said. 

“Easy for you to say,” Steve said, pressing a hand into his straining belly. He belched. “You're not the one who's been eating nonstop for three hours.”

“Aw,” Bucky said. “Getting full?”

Steve patted his stuffed gut, then tipped his head up for a kiss. 

“Getting there,” he said.


End file.
